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W 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


The   Works  of  Leonard  Merrick 


THE  WORLDLINGS 


The  Works  of 
LEONARD  MERRICK 


CONRAD  IN  QUEST  OF  HIS  YOUTH.  With 
an  Introduction  by  Sin  J.  M.  Basrte. 

WHEN  LOVE  FLIES  OUT  O'  THE  WINDOW. 

With  on  Introduction  by  Sat  William  Robert- 
son Nicoll. 

THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS.  With  an  Intro- 
duction by  H.  G.  Wells. 

THE  POSITION  OF  PEGGY  HARPER.    With 

an  Introduction  by  Sik  Arthur  Pikero. 

THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN  and 
other  Stories.  With  an  Introduction  by  W.  J. 
Locks. 

THE  WORLDLINGS.  With  an  Introduction  by 
Neil  Mumho. 

THE  ACTOR-MANAGER.  With  an  Introduction 
by  W.  D.  Howills. 

CYNTHIA.  With  an  Introduction  by  Maurich 
Hewlett. 

ONE  MAN'S  VTEW.  With  an  Introduction  by 
Granville  Barker. 

THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  GOOD.  With  an  Intro- 
duction by  J.  K.  Prothero. 

A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD.  With  an 
Introduction  by  A.  Neil  Ltons. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  LYNCH.  With  an  Introduc- 
tion by  G.  K.  Chesterton. 

WHILE  PARIS  LAUGHED:  Being  Prankb  and 
Pabsions  of  thii  Poet  Tricotrin. 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DGTTON  &  COMPANY 


THE 
WORLDLINGS 

¥ 

By     LEONARD     MERRICK 

¥ 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
NEIL  MUNRO 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  1919, 
BY  E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


The  First  American  Definitive  Edition,  with  Introduction  by 

Neil  Munro,  limited  to  1550  copies 

(of  which  only  1500  were  for  sale). 

Published,  December,  1919. 

Second  American  Edition,  January,  19£0. 

Third  "  "  "         1920. 

Fourth         "  "      February,   19>>0. 

Fifth  "  "  "  192°- 

Sixth  "  "         March.  1920. 


Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 


INTRODUCTION 


The  Worldlings  has  in  it  almost  every  element 
of  Merrick's  attractiveness  as  a  tale-teller,  save 
perhaps  his  humour,  here  kept  severely  in 
restraint  as  a  quality  out  of  key  in  a  story 
founded  on  "one  of  the  passionate  cruces  of  life, 
where  duty  and  inclination  come  nobly  to  the 
grapple."  The  conventionality  of  the  plot,  how- 
ever, and  the  superficial  curiosities  it  evokes,  may 
at  a  first  reading  leave  less  impressive  its  grasp 
of  human  character,  that  quality  which  its 
author's  admirers  best  like  in  him.  Yet  one 
comes  upon  returned  South  Africans  who  place 
The  Worldlings  among  Merrick's  highest 
achievements.  The  vraisemblance  of  its  earlier 
chapters,  with  the  airs  and  manners  of  life  on  the 
Fields  deployed  in  those  colours  that  there  pre- 
dominate in  the  landscape  and  the  minds  of  men, 
possibly  appeals  peculiarly  to  the  exiles  of 
Africa,  but  they  are  intrigued,  furthermore,  no 
doubt,  by  the  story  itself,  with  its  sharp  social 
contrasts,  wherein  a  man  yesterday  a  beggarly 
overseer  to-day  is  living  the  life  of  a  lord  in  the 
stateliest  English  surroundings.    This  vision  of 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

a  possible  sudden  affluence  must  always  be  dear 
to  the  imagination  of  men  occupied  loathsomely 
in  an  alien  atmosphere  of  100  degrees  in  the 
shade,  in  association  with  Zulus  and  Kaffirs,  and 
ever  carried  on  from  day  to  day  through  their 
squalid  search  for  gems  by  the  hope  of  a  possible 
Koh-i-noor  or  Cullinan. 

Not  that  the  Diamond  Fields  now,  or  in  the 
days  when  Merrick  was  there,  directly  present 
any  such  glittering  possibilities  to  the  overseer. 
As  Maurice  Blake,  the  hero  of  The  Worldlings, 
found  in  the  years  of  the  New  Rush,  the  Fields 
proffer  no  better  prospect  than  a  living  wage  to 
any  one  who  can  secure  no  proprietary  interest 
in  the  precious  stuff  he  handles,  and  who  must 
see  in  Kimberley  less  a  mining  camp  than  a 
vulgar  share  market.  Yet  through  a  thousand 
hopeless  dawns  will  men  of  spirit  maintain 
illusions,  cherish  dreams,  and  one  surmises  that 
Merrick  in  his  6tory  ministered  deliberately  to 
this  almost  universal  human  aptitude  to  speculate 
upon  the  possibilities  of  sudden  wealth.  It  is 
the  theme  of  a  myriad  tales,  and  some  of  them 
the  best  in  the  world.  Sudden  wealth  being,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  unJikely  to  any  overseer 
on  the  Fields,  and  too  ridiculous  to  postulate  in 
Maurice  Blake's  case  as  a  result  of  theft  or 
I.D.B.,  there  remained  to  the  author  the  alterna- 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

tive  of  an  unexpected  English  inheritance  for  his 
hero,  which  should,  at  a  flash,  release  him  from 
his  purgatory.  It  would  have  been  banal  to 
have  Blake  merely  a  baronet's  son  incognito; 
much  more  piquant  play  was  to  be  made  by  hav- 
ing him  impersonate  one.  The  story  of  Sir 
Roger  Tichborne  is  older  than  the  Trial  of  the 
Claimant ;  it  is  one  of  the  original  thirty-six  pos- 
sible plots  (or  whatever  the  number  may  be)  to 
which  every  story  in  the  world  may  be  traced. 
But  the  Tichborne  imposture  is  what  we  first 
think  of  when  the  worldling's  career  is  lamented. 
Merrick  inevitably  made  his  hero  another  Tich- 
borne; but  illiterate  Richard  Ortons  are,  in  a 
book,  as  in  real  life,  impossible  creatures  to  thrust 
through  conversational  engagements  with  mem- 
bers of  the  "upper  circles"  while  maintaining  the 
cloak  of  importance,  and  consequently  Merrick's 
hero  had  to  be  something  of  a  cultured  mam 

A  cultured  man  that  he  might  be  capable  of 
those  conversational  flights  which  rarely  happen 
in  the  real  life  of  Society,  but  which  no  author 
dare  dispense  with  in  his  dialogue  if  Society  be 
his  theme;  a  man  capable  of  at  least  one  im- 
pulsive dishonourable  act,  yet  at  bottom  a  soul 
of  honour,  and  capable  of  great  renunciations — 
such  was  the  type  necessary  for  the  heroic  im- 
postor, and  having  decided  upon  him,  the  rest  of 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

the  machinery  was  fairly  easy.  It  needed  but  to 
create  a  few  more  figures  of  men  and  women  who 
by  act  and  word  should  carry  the  hero  through 
the  tale  with  plausibility.  As  The  Worldlings 
is  not  one  of  those  tales  in  which  the  author 
keeps  a  card  up  his  sleeve  to  be  brought  forth 
with  stunning  effect  in  the  denouement,  prac- 
tically all  its  trend  being  obvious  after  the  first 
two  chapters,  one  may  divulge  its  main  idea 
without  giving  away  anything  to  lessen  the  eager 
anticipation  of  the  reader.  He  is  kept  in  sus- 
pense not  by  a  succession  of  mechanically  con- 
trived events  but  by  the  fresh  recurring  problems 
of  honour  which  must  inevitably  arise  after  the 
first  faux  pas  of  Blake. 

There  are  really  but  four  protagonists  in  The 
Worldlings — Maurice  Blake  himself,  who  be- 
came the  soi-disant  Philip  Jardine;  the  girl  he 
married  under  false  pretences;  Rosa  Fleming, 
the  Jezebel  of  the  piece,  and  Sir  Noel  Jardine, 
the  father  of  the  dead  man  impersonated.  Those 
four  characters  are  admirably  portrayed — fresh, 
vigorous,  and  subtle,  fitting  into  the  fable  with 
the  inevitability  of  fate.  Blake  himself  achieved 
the  difficult  task  of  securing  our  sympathy 
despite  his  error,  long  before  that  final  renuncia- 
tion which,  as  by  a  sudden  happy  shock,  jolts  all 
the  discordant  bells  of  his  life  into  harmonv.     It 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

is,  fortunately,  none  of  the  author's  business, 
either  to  anticipate  or  disclose  how  the  Blake 
menage  weathered  that  fiscal  adversity  for  which, 
at  the  hour  of  revelation,  the  splendours  of  Croft 
Court  had  to  be  relinquished.  A  wife  whose 
first  impression  of  the  man  to  be  her  husband  is 
summed  up  in  "half  a  radical,  half  a  bore"  (a 
shameful  misunderstanding  of  Maurice  Blake's 
character),  is  really  only  beginning  to  be  tested 
when  the  curtain  falls.  Four  protagonists — no, 
there  are  really  five,  on  coming  to  think  of  it 
again;  Lady  Wrensfordsley,  the  most  truly 
worldly  of  all  the  "worldlings,"  is  one  of  the  most 
striking  characters  in  the  book;  to  the  heart  of 
her  the  author  gets  even  "further  ben,"  as  we  say 
in  Scotland,  than  he  does  with  her  daughter  or 
Rosa  Fleming,  though  all  his  women  are  micro- 
scopically observed. 

The  worldlings  move  in  a  real  atmosphere,  not 
in  a  vacuum  with  surroundings  gathered  from 
auction  sales  and  described  with  the  minutiae  of  a 
catalogue,  and  Merrick's  English  park  and  Lon- 
don are  as  emotionally  and  visually  right  as  his 
Diamond  Fields.  This  faculty  of  conveying  the 
real  airs  of  diverse  scenes  as  far  apart  as  the 
Antipodes,  or  separate  only  by  a  carriage 
journey,  is  one  of  the  author's  happiest  gifts;  he 
may  spare  but  a  paragraph  or  two  for  topog- 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

idea  of  the  problems  of  life  and  time.  Merrick 
is  always  sane,  even  in  his  sentimental  and 
romantic  moods;  if  he  has  illusions — and  who 
can  escape  them  in  a  world  of  appearances? — 
they  are  not  of  the  common  and  contemptible 
order  that  upholster  so  many  novels  of  crime, 
wealth,  and  passion. 

Neil  Mitxro. 


THE  WORLDLINGS 


CHAPTER  I 

The  thermometer  registered  100°  in  the  shade, 
and  where  he  stood  there  was  no  shade;  on  the 
depositing-floors  no  relief  from  the  intense  dry 
heat  was  possible  for  even  a  moment.  He  was 
paid  to  watch  twelve  Kaffirs  and  Zulus,  who 
broke  the  lumps  of  diamondiferous  soil  into 
smaller  pieces,  and  were  adroit  in  concealing  the 
gems ;  their  skins  glistened  now,  and  they  swung 
their  picks  torpidly.  He  was  paid  to  watch  them 
from  "sun  up"  until  "sun  down,"  and  God 
knows  there  was  little  else  for  him  to  view.  No 
tree,  no  shrub,  rose  here;  there  was  nothing  but 
the  arid  earth,  and  the  blue  flare  of  sky.  In  his 
eyes  was  the  dazzle  of  the  grey  ground  which 
stretched  before  him  like  a  level  beach,  and  re- 
flected the  blaze  of  the  sun;  in  his  ears  was  the 
long-drawn  whir  of  the  tubs  as  they  travelled  the 
wire  runners  to  the  mine ;  in  his  heart  was  despair. 

For  six  months  he  had  lived  this  loathsome 
life — he  was  remembering  it.  During  six  months 
he  had  filled  a  fool's  berth,  because  energy,  and 
brains,  and  education  were  able  to  find  no  better 
opening.     In  '82  the  time  when  men  without 

l 


2  THE  WORLDLINGS 

capital  or  credit  could  arrive  on  the  Diamond 
Fields  and  expect  to  make  money  honestly  had 
already  passed.  He  would  soon  be  forty,  and 
since  he  was  seventeen  the  man  had  done  his 
best.  He  had  done  the  best  that  in  him  lay!  he 
could  maintain  that.  He  had  never  neglected 
an  opportunity,  he  had  never  committed  a  dis- 
honourable action,  he  had  never  shirked  hard 
work — but  he  was  a  failure.  To  go  to  Kimber- 
ley  had  been  his  purpose  for  years,  while  he 
buffeted  ill-luck  in  America;  but  it  had  been 
years  before  he  could  save  the  means  to  go.  In 
the  United  States,  as  in  Australia,  his  struggle 
towards  fortune  had  ended  in  a  cul-de-sac; 
Kimberlev  was  still  called  the  New  Rush,  and 
the  thought  of  it  had  sustained  his  courage.  He 
had  hoarded,  and  scraped,  and  fulfilled  his  pur- 
pose at  last.    And  he  had  come  for  this! 

He  had  pictured  himself  a  digger,  labouring 
with  his  own  hands  on  his  own  claim,  sweating, 
but  hopeful.  He  found  the  mines  apportioned 
among  companies — in  which  men  like  himself 
could  secure  no  closer  interest  than  they  could 
obtain  in  a  coal-pit  at  home.  He  found  that  to 
the  majority,  Kimberley  was  less  like  a  mining 
camp  than  a  share  market — which  concerned  him 
as  little  as  the  stock  exchange  in  New  York  when 
he  had  trodden  the  Wall  Street  sidewalk.     He 


THE  WORLDLINGS  2 

found  that  he  had  added  another  unit  to  the 
hundreds  of  Englishmen  seeking  a  living  wage, 
and  had  finally  welcomed  a  situation  that  held 
no  prospect  of  improvement. 

And  he  would  soon  be  forty — the  better  half 
of  his  life  had  gone!  He  recalled  the  period 
when  forty  had  been  so  far  ahead  that  to  fore- 
see himself  a  rich  man  by  then  had  seemed  a 
moderate  expectation.  Recalled  it  ?  It  was  only 
the  other  day!  He  had  been  twenty- five,  with 
an  eternity  at  his  disposal;  thirty,  with  a  shock; 
thirty-five,  and  fighting  against  time.  The  flash 
of  three  sign-posts,  and  his  youth  was  dead.  Each 
succeeding  year  had  been  a  clod  on  its  coffin. 

"Macho!"  he  said  to  the  blacks.  It  meant 
"Make  haste";  it  was  nearly  all  the  native  vo- 
cabulary  that  he  required. 

He  was  asking  himself  "How  long?"  What 
unimaginable  turn  of  the  wheel  would  liberate 
him?  Money  was  not  made  by  working  for 
others  unless  one  worked  in  a  prominent  posi- 
tion. The  manager  of  the  company  had  a  thou- 
sand a  year,  though  he  could  scarcely  be  thirty, 
and  it  was  well  known  had  never  set  eyes  on  a 
washing-machine,  or  a  rough  stone,  until  a  few 
months  before  he  strolled  into  the  post.  He  wore 
a  blue-and-white  puggaree  round  his  wide-awake, 
and  a  cummerbund  in  lieu  of  a  belt,  and  flicked 


4  THE  WORLDLINGS 

his  new  Bedford  cords  with  an  unnecessary  hunt- 
ing-crop; and  he  looked  at  the  hauling-engine 
as  if  he  feared  it  was  going  to  explode.  Yet  he 
had  a  thousand  a  year;  and  he  would  buy  scrip, 
and  prosper,  and  go  to  England  by-and-by  to 
live  in  ease.  But  that  had  been  influence — his 
brother  had  been  manager  before  him,  and  had 
initiated  him  into  the  duties.  The  dealers  who 
sat  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  sorting  diamonds  on 
white  paper  in  the  windows  of  their  iron  offices, 
would  retire  and  go  to  England  by-and-by;  but 
to  be  a  dealer  required  capital,  and  knowledge 
of  the  trade.  The  brokers  who  bustled  in  and 
out  of  the  offices,  netting  commissions  on  their 
sales,  might  nurse  hopes  of  England  and  dis- 
tant independence;  but  to  be  a  broker  required 
a  license  and  a  heavy  guarantee. 

England!  In  two-and-twenty  years  his  only 
glimpse  of  it  had  been  in  the  few  days  passed 
in  London  the  previous  spring,  after  he  had 
landed  from  America,  preparatively  to  sailing 
for  the  Cape.  The  longing  for  it  thrilled  him. 
As  he  watched  the  Kaffirs  and  sweltered  in  the 
sun,  he  fancied  what  it  would  be  like  to  be  on 
the  river,  in  flannels,  lazying  under  the  boughs; 
to  be  driving  in  a  hansom  among  the  lights  of 
the  VSJest  End;  to  taste  the  life  of  the  kid-gloved 
men  he  had  envied  on  those  April  evenings  from 


THE  WORLDLINGS  5 

the  pavement,  as  the  cabs  sped  by  him,  bearing 
them  to  the  restaurants,  to  the  theatres,  to 
women's  arms. 

"Macho!"  he  repeated  perfunctorily.  Then, 
noticing  that  some  of  the  gang  seemed  half 
asleep:  "Hi!"  he  cried.  "What  are  you  doing? 
That  isn't  work,  it's  rest!" 

At  his  tone  their  movements  quickened,  though 
his  words  were  unintelligible  to  them,  but  after 
a  few  prods  with  their  picks  they  grew  comatose 
again.  One  of  the  squad,  who  called  himself 
"Me  Tom,"  had  been  a  kitchen-boy  and  could 
speak  English. 

"Tell  them,"  said  Maurice  Blake  to  him,  "that 
if  they're  lazy,  they  won't  get  full  pay  on  Sat- 
urday; do  you  hear?" 

Me  Tom  nodded,  and  translated  the  warning, 
and  the  offenders  answered  all  together  at  great 
length. 

'What  do  they  say?"  asked  the  overseer. 

'They  say,"  replied  the  native,  "that  the  baas- 
is  a  just  baas;  what  he  says  is  sense.  They  say 
they  thank  him  that  he  not  use  the  sjambok  to 
them,  or  be  cruel  with  his  feet,  or  throw  stones. 
He  is  a  very  good  baas" 

"Stop  that  rot,"  said  Blake;  "I  don't  want  to 
hear  any  lies." 

The  negro  raised  an  arm  solemnly,  with  the 


6  THE  WORLDLINGS 

first  and  second  fingers  extended,  and  said: 
"Kor*r  which  signified  "So  help  me,  God !"  He 
continued:  "They  say  it  is  not  because  they  lazy 
that  they  not  work,  baas,  but  because  on  Satur- 
day they  start  away,  with  their  savings,  and  their 
blankets,  and  their  guns  as  the  baas  must  have 
often  seen  others  start.  They  say  they  go  back 
to  their  own  country  and  they  buy  wives;  and 
they  will  have  daughters  and  much  cattle — and 
they  so  sick  with  happiness  that  they  canvnot 
work,  baas.    Kors!" 

"I  understand,"  said  Blake,  slowly;  he  under- 
stood very  well.  "Tell  them  they  must  do  their 
best." 

So  he  was  popular  with  the  Kaffirs;  he  had 
not  guessed  it,  nor  thought  about  the  matter. 

"Ask  them,"  he  said  now,  "what  they  call  me." 

No  white  man  on  the  floors  was  known  to  the 
niggers  by  his  name — it  was  sufficient  that  an 
overseer  should  be  a  "baas"  and  a  manager  a 
"big  baas."  But  among  the  blacks  themselves 
their  masters  were  always  referred  to  by  nick- 
names, and  though,  if  these  transpired,  they  sel- 
dom sounded  to  European  ears  very  apt,  proof 
was  often  afforded  that  to  the  native  mind  they 
were  extraordinarily  descriptive.  When  a  party 
of  Kaffirs  tramped  homeward,  after  the  Fields 
had  served  their  purpose,  they  met  on  the  road 


THE  WORLDLINGS  7 

other  parties,  bound  in  their  turn  for  the  mines ; 
and  then  thev  who  returned  narrated  to  their 
compatriots  the  dangers  they  had  passed,  and 
uttered  counsel,  cautioning  them  against  the  man- 
ager who  had  flogged  their  brother  to  death,  and 
commending  the  overseer  under  whom  they  had 
been  able  to  steal  klips.  And  so  serviceable  were 
the  nicknames  that,  when  the  newcomers  arrived, 
they  identified  the  owners  at  sight  and  recog- 
nised the  baas  who  was  desirable,  and  the  baas 
who  should  be  shunned. 

"Well?  Don't  be  afraid,"  exclaimed  Blake, 
seeing  that  the  interpreter  looked  bashful;  "I 
want  to  know!" 

"They  say,"  said  Me  Tom,  as  if  disclaiming 
all  agreement  with  the  sobriquet  himself,  "that 
they  call  the  baas  'The  baas  with  square  shoulders 
and  hungry  eyes.'  " 

"Thanks,"  said  Blake.  "Now  you  can  get  on; 
and  put  your  back  into  it!" 

The  burning  glare  of  the  day  was  gradually 
abating;  the  sun  streamed  across  the  sorting- 
shed  now,  turning  the  corrugated  iron  of  the  roof 
to  fire.  A  breeze  arose,  hot  as  the  breath  of  an 
oven,  catching  the  dried  tailings  and  blowing 
them  across  the  floors  in  clouds  that  grew  mo- 
mentarily denser.  As  it  increased  in  force,  the 
grit  was  volleyed  in  blinding  gusts,  hissing  as  it 


8  THE  WORLDLINGS 

swept  near,  and  stinging  the  neek  and  hands. 
The  atmosphere  was  darkened  as  if  by  fog;  the 
doors  of  adjacent  sheds  slammed  violently;  and 
the  neighing  of  the  horses  could  be  heard.  But 
after  half  an  hour  the  duststorm  passed. 

Slowly,  slowly,  the  sun  dropped  lower  behind 
the  sorting-shed;  the  grey  of  the  diamondiferous 
ground  lost  its  tinge  of  blue;  and  the  screams 
of  the  engines  announced  that  the  day  was  done. 
Blake  picked  up  his  jacket  and  trudged  down 
the  barren  road  that  wound  to  Market  Square, 
and  what  served  him  for  a  home.  His  berth  was 
in  Bultfontein,  and  diggers  and  blacks  still 
poured  from  the  neighbouring  mines  of  Du 
Toit's  Pan  when  he  reached  it.  As  he  passed  the 
veranda  of  the  one-storied  iron  club  he  could 
hear  the  popping  of  corks,  and  the  voices  of  men 
luckier  than  he  in  some  approach  to  comfort; 
outside  the  canteens,  and  the  tin  shanties,  made 
of  the  lining  of  packing-cases,  the  guttural  cries 
of  the  niggers  filled  the  air.  Natives  stood  in 
groups  everywhere,  some  with  their  blankets  on, 
others  still  as  they  had  left  the  works,  shouting 
and  gesticulating  excitedly.  An  ox-wagon  lum- 
bered through  the  deep  dust  of  Main  Street;  on 
the  stoep  of  the  Carnarvon  Hotel  the  proprietor 
and  one  of  the  visitors  were  fighting.  After  he 
had  drunk  a  limejuice-and-soda,  Blake  walked 


THE  WORLDLINGS  9 

along  Du  Toit's  Pan  Road  till  he  came  to  his 
bedroom  door;  he  unlocked  it,  and  crossed  the 
mud  floor  wearily.  The  heat  had  melted  the  can- 
dle till  it  drooped  from  the  candlestick  in  a  half- 
hoop  and  stuck  to  the  washhand-stand ;  when  he 
had  straightened  it,  he  washed.  The  washhand- 
stand  and  a  truckle-bed  furnished  the  room  be- 
tween the  corrugated  iron  walls,  so  he  lay  on  the 
bed,  and  listened  to  the  buzzing  of  a  hundred 
flies,  until  the  clash  of  a  handbell  summoned 
him  to  dinner. 

The  boarders  belonged  to  the  lower  ranks; 
most  of  them  had  overseers'  places  like  his  own. 
A  woman  was  rarely  seen  at  a  Diamond  Fields 
hotel,  but  temporarily  there  were  two  women 
here.  They  were  the  wife  and  daughter  of  a 
cockney  who  had  kept  a  Kaffir-store  which  had 
recently  been  destroyed  by  fire.  The  charge  of 
arson  had  not  been  proved,  and  the  family  were 
returning  to  Southwark  with  the  insurance 
money.  The  finger-nails  of  the  assembly  testi- 
fied to  a  laborious  week,  and  Maurice,  who  knew 
none  of  them,  hated  them  with  an  unreasoning 
rage.  He  ate  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  plate, 
about  which  the  flies  swarmed  furiously;  but  he 
could  not  stop  his  ears,  and,  stimulated  by  the 
unaccustomed  society  of  white  women,  the  men 
grew  humorous  as  the  beer  vanished.    It  was  for 


10  THE  WORLDLINGS 

their  "humour"  that  he  cursed  them.  Habitude 
had  steeled  him  to  their  adjectives,  but  under 
the  sallies  and  the  giggles  of  the  third-class  his 
nerves  were  taut. 

He  finished  his  meal  as  hurriedly  as  usual,  and 
taught  up  his  hat.  The  moon  had  risen  now, 
and  the  mounds  of  debris,  which  were  all  that 
relieved  the  flatness  of  the  dreary  view,  gleamed 
like  snow.  He  hailed  a  "cart,"  for  he  felt  too 
tired  to  walk  into  Kimberley  this  evening,  and 
he  must  inquire  how  Jardine  was.  For  the  first 
time  it  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  what  he  had 
done  with  his  evenings  before  these  visits  to  the 
house  in  Lennox  Street  became  his  habit.  What 
had  begun  it ?  There  had  been  a  melee  in  Carme's 
Saloon  one  night,  when  the  threat  of  wrecking 
the  Kama  Company's  machinery  was  in  the  air, 
but  he  didn't  quite  remember  how  Jardine  and 
he  had  come  to  leave  the  bar  together.  Plow- 
ever,  the  row  had  been  his  introduction  to  the 
only  educated  man  he  knew,  or  had  a  chance  of 
knowing. 

Again  Kimberley  looked  large  and  cheerful  to 
him  by  comparison  with  the  Pan,  as  the  cart  rat- 
tled into  the  electric  light;  but  the  air  of  cheer- 
fulness was  only  momentary,  and  after  the  prin- 
cipal thoroughfare  the  streets  were  empty  and 
dark. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  11 

Maurice  stopped  the  Hottentot  driver  at  a 
wooden  cottage  with  a  stoep,  and  rapped  at  the 
door.  A  voice  called  to  him  to  go  in,  and  when 
he  obeyed,  he  stood  in  the  parlour. 

The  construction  was  simple.  The  cottage  con- 
sisted of  one  story,  and  was  spacious  enough  to 
have  formed  a  good-sized  room.  Two  partitions, 
roughly  covered  with  chintz,  divided  it  into  three, 
which  served  for  sitting-room,  bedroom,  and 
kitchen.  At  the  back  was  a  small  compound, 
where  the  washing  hung,  enclosed  by  a  corru- 
gated iron  fence. 

A  woman  in  a  rocking-chair  had  been  reading 
by  a  paraffin  lamp,  and  as  he  entered  she  put  out 
her  hand. 

"How  is  he?"  asked  Maurice. 

"He  is  bad,"  she  said.  "He's  asleep  now; 
don't  walk  about — the  more  he  can  sleep  the  bet- 
ter. Come  and  sit  down.  I  daresay  he'll  wake 
before  you  go.     I  shall  hear  him  if  he  moves." 

"What  does  the  doctor  sav?" 

"If  he  pulls  through,  the  doctor  advises  a  trip 
to  the  Colony;  it's  easy  to  give  advice,  isn't  it? 
If  we  can't  manage  that,  'Alexandersfontein 
might  pick  him  up.'  " 

"They  always  advise  men  to  leave  the  Fields 
after  a  bad  attack  of  the  fever,"  he  said.     "I 


12  THE  WORLDLINGS 

know;  I  had  a  touch  of  it  myself  soon  after  I  got 
here." 

He  took  a  seat  by  the  table,  and  for  a  few 
moments  neither  said  any  more.  The  woman  was 
staring  at  nothing,  her  brows  meeting  in  a  frown, 
and  her  passionate  mouth  compressed.  The 
wrapper  she  wore  was  discoloured,  and  her  care- 
lessly coiled  hair  had  come  half  unpinned;  yet 
she  was  far  from  looking  a  mere  handsome  slut 
who  had  sunk  to  the  surroundings,  or  a  woman 
who  was  used  to  them.  She  had  lived,  perhaps, 
five-and-thirty  years;  and  dressed  as  nature  had 
designed  her  to  dress — as  once,  probably,  she  had 
dressed — she  would  have  been  magnificent. 

"A  month  at  Alexandersfontein  wouldn't  cost 
a  great  deal,"  said  Maurice  at  last;  "can't  it  be 
worked,  Mrs.  Jardine?" 

"Do  you  know  how  broke  we  are?"  she  re- 
turned impatiently.     "Have  you  any  idea?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  know  things  aren't  gay. 
Jardine  never  went  into  details." 

"We  have  about  nine  pounds  to-night;  that's 
our  capital.  There's  no  reason  why  I  should 
make  a  secret  of  it.  Oh!  don't  look  concerned — 
we  shall  rub  along.  But  it  will  hardly  run  to  a 
month's  hotel-bill,  eh?" 

"No,  it  won't  run  to  a  month's  hotel-bill,"  he 
said;  "I  didn't  understand  that  things  were  so 


THE  WORLDLINGS  13 

bad  as  that.  Well,  I  can  manage  to  lend  him  a 
fiver,  you  know — I  can  lend  it  to  him  now.  You'd 
better  take  it  for  him,  will  you?" 

"You're  down  on  your  own  luck,"  she  replied; 
"and  I  didn't  tell  you  for  that.  Besides,  there's 
— there's  just  a  chance  of  something  big  happen- 
ing. No,  we  won't  borrow  from  you  before  we're 
obliged  to;  you  shall  lend  us  a  few  pounds  later 
on,  if  there's  no  other  way.  Now  you'll  have  a 
drink.  Yes,  you  will!"  she  said  decisively;  "we 
aren't  so  hard  up  that  we  haven't  a  bottle  of 
whisky  in  the  house — we  never  are.  Perhaps  it 
would  have  been  a  good  thing  for  Phil  if  we  had 
been,  sometimes.  The  girl  brought  in  that  jug 
of  water  just  now — it's  quite  cool." 

"Shall  I  mix  you  some?"  asked  Maurice,  fetch- 
ing the  bottle  and  two  tumblers. 

"Thanks.  You  know  you  can  smoke?  If  you 
sit  bv  the  window  he  can't  smell  it  in  the  bed- 
room.  It's  a  lively  state  of  things,  isn't  it?  This 
is  the  result  of  turning  over  a  new  leaf.  While 
he  knocked  about  in  cities,  Phil  was  right  enough 
— he  always  fell  on  his  feet  somehow;  but  he 
really  meant  to  put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel 
when  we  came  to  this  heaven-forsaken  country 
—he  thought  he  was  going  to  make  money  with 
an  ostrich  farm.  An  ostrich  farm!"  Her  ges- 
ture told  everything.    "I  shall  hate  the  sight  of 


14  THE  WORLDLINGS 

an  ostrich  feather  to  the  day  I  die.  Then  he  came 
up  here,  when  he  had  lost  all  the  dollars  that 
would  have  given  him  a  show!  What  fools  men 
are!" 

"A  man's  always  called  a  fool  if  he  has  bad 
luck,"  he  said;  "and  it's  the  one  sort  of  'folly' 
that  the  world  doesn't  make  excuses  for.  'Put 
money  in  thy  purse' — and  keep  it  there,  for  no- 
body will  give  you  anything  when  it  has  gone. 
Here  endeth  the  first  lesson,  and  the  last." 

"That's  your  philosophy?"  she  said. 

"That's  my  philosophy,  or  part  of  it;  there's 
more  that  I've  acquired  too  late.  Succeed!  it's 
the  only  duty  imposed  on  a  man.  Never  mind 
how;  succeed!  It's  a  desirable  world  while  it 
turns  the  sunny  side  to  you,  but  a  clean  record 
won't  pawn  for  much  when  you're  on  your 
uppers." 

"Have  you  ever  had  a  good  time?"  inquired  the 
woman  curiously.  "Have  you  always  had  to 
rough  it — or  did  you  come  a  cropper  once?" 

"I  never  came  a  cropper  in  the  sense  you 
mean,"  he  said;  "my  father  had  made  his  money 
in  business,  and  retired  before  I  was  born,  and 
most  of  his  fortune  was  dropped  on  the  Stock 
Exchange  in  England  when  he  was  over  sixty. 
He  had  brothers-in-law  who  wrote  urging  him  to 
join  them  in  mining  operations  with  the  few  thou- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  15 

sands  that  remained.  The  young  men  were  flat 
broke  at  the  time  and  pretty  desperate;  the  fig- 
ures they  sent  were  very  ingenious.  He  arranged 
to  leave  my  sister  behind  with  their  mother — I 
was  still  at  school — and  we  let  him  sail.  I  think 
the  only  advice  we  gave  him  was  not  to  'suspect 
his  partners' — I  thought  I  was  very  clever,  little 
ass!  We  warned  him  that  he  had  a  'suspicious 
nature/  .  .  .  After  they  had  robbed  him,  and 
the  climate  and  the  hardships  had  broken  his 
health,  he  escaped  to  the  coast,  and  my  sister  went 
out  to  him.  He  began  to  get  stronger;  he  was 
happy  there — pathetically  happy,  when  one  re- 
members that  he  was  grudged  even  that!  His 
remittances  for  her  keep  were  missed  in  London 
— they  had  been  very  generous — and  the  old 
woman  on  one  side,  and  her  sons  on  the  other, 
wrote  upbraiding  him  for  his  weakness  in  'hang- 
ing back.'  'Hanging  back'  was  the  term  used. 
They  were  very  scornful  about  his  'hanging  back' ! 
he  was  told  that  it  was  very  cowardly  to  want 
to  live  in  comfort  with  his  child.  They  got  my 
sister  sent  home,  and  hounded  him  to  the  mines 
again." 

"How  old  were  you?" 

"I  was  sixteen.  When  he  had  very  little  more 
to  lose,  his  brothers-in-law  told  him  he  had  better 
go  back  to  England  and  stay  with  their  mother 


16  THE  WORLDLINGS 

himself.  He  stayed  with  their  mother,  and  was 
overcharged  and  insulted,  until  she  had  had  his 
last  pound,  and  everything  of  value  from  his 
luggage.  Then  she  turned  him  out.  My  sister 
had  been  brought  up  to  look  forward  to  a  life  of 
leisure  and  refinement,  but  she  went  to  work — so 
did  I;  and  we  did  the  best  we  could  for  him. 
Between  us  we  contrived  to  find  fifteen  shillings 
every  week  for  'partial  board  in  a  musical  family 
at  Dalston.'  When  I  was  eighteen  I  went 
abroad.  My  father  was  one  of  the  best  men  that 
ever  lived.  He  had  given  away  large  sums,  and 
helped  many  people,  and  there  wasn't  a  day  dur- 
ing his  last  five  years  on  which  he  had  enough  to 
eat.  The  wretch  who  turned  him  out,  and  who 
had  sponged  on  him  from  the  hour  he  married, 
was  the  worst  woman  I  have  known — she  had 
every  vice  except  unchastity — and  she  stood  high 
in  her  own  esteem,  and  devoured  delicacies  to  the 
end.  I  think  that  was  when  I  began  to  see  that 
the  only  moral  contained  by  life  is  'Never  be 
poor.'  " 

"And  your  sister?    Where  is  she  now?" 
"My  sister  got  a  situation  at  a  draper's,  and 
died  in  it  before  she  was  twenty-three." 

Pie  took  his  pipe  from  his  pocket,  and  filled 
it  moodily;  and  the  woman  lit  a  cigarette  over 
the  lamp.    After  a  whiff,  she  said : 


THE  WORLDLINGS  17 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  met  a  man  who  spoke 
well  of  his  father  before.  Phil  hasn't  much  rea- 
son to  care  a  great  deal  about  his!" 

"I  didn't  know  his  father  was  alive,"  he  said, 
striking  a  match  as  far  as  possible  from  his 
nostrils. 

"No,  he  doesn't  talk  about  him  to  anyone." 
She  hesitated  for  a  second,  in  a  struggle  with  an 
impulse,  and  then,  succumbing  to  it,  added  quick- 
ly: "Look  here,  I'll  tell  you  something,  though 
I  didn't  mean  to  yet!  Phil's  father  is  a  very 
rich  man." 

"Why  doesn't  he  send  you  some  money  then?" 
said  Maurice. 

"Perhaps  he  will — that's  what  I  meant  when 
I  said  there  was  a  chance  of  something  big  hap- 
pening to  us.  But  Phil  left  home  when  he  was 
nineteen ;  there  was — I  don't  know  .  .  .  Phil  was 
wild.  It  doesn't  much  matter  after  twenty — 
how  many?  .  .  .  Phil  is  fortv-two.  Besides,  no- 
body  heard  anything  about  it — it  was  hushed  up. 
Don't  you  say  anything  about  this  to  Phil!" 

"I  never  give  away  a  confidence,"  he  said. 
"Well?" 

"Well,  his  passage  was  paid  to  Melbourne, 
and  he  was  to  draw  a  bit  every  month  on  con- 
dition that  he  never  went  back  to  England — it 
was  very  little,  for  his  father  wasn't  well  off  in 


18  THE  WORLDLINGS 

those  days.  After  about  eight  years  the  pay- 
ments stopped;  the  old  man  had  had  losses,  or 
got  tired  of  the  game.  Phil  was  dead  sick  of  the 
country,  and  he'd  had  a  fluke,  so  he  went  to  the 
States.  I  met  him  in  San  Francisco.  Well,  a 
few  months  ago  the  old  man,  who's  nearly  eighty, 
came  into  a  baronetcy.  Phil's  father  is  Sir  Xoel 
Jardine  now,  with  about  twenty  thousand  a  year." 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Maurice.  "Is  the  prop- 
erty entailed?" 

"Yes,  sir!  And,  anyhow,  Phil  was  the  only 
child  he  had — and  there's  nobody  else  to  succeed. 
I  was  bound  to  tell  you — I  couldn't  keep  it  in 
any  longer.  I'm  waiting  for  the  answer  to  a  cable 
we  sent  last  month;  and  if  it  comes — Scott!  if  it 
comes,  we  shall  go  to  London,  and  I  shall  wear 
proper  frocks  and  hats  again,  and  lace,  and  furs, 

and  diamonds,  and  drive  in  the  Park,  and " 

She  had  risen  at  the  thought,  her  dark  eyes  shin- 
ing with  excitement,  and  she  paused  with  a  morti- 
fied laugh:  "I  look  like  lace  and  diamonds  to- 
night, don't  I?"  she  said  bitterly.  "Where's  my 
drink?    Have  another,  and  wish  us  luck!" 

"What's  the  principal  doubt?"  he  said;  "why 
shouldn't  an  answer  come?  Isn't  your  husband 
in  correspondence  with  his  father?" 

"It  was  stipulated  that  there  should  be  no  cor- 
respondence when  Phil  was  shipped  off.     He 


THE  WORLDLINGS  19 

wrote  once,  about  five  years  ago,  just  after  we 
came  out  here;  but  he  didn't  get  any  answer, 
and  he  has  never  written  since." 

"But  you  say  the  old  man  hadn't  come  into 
the  property  five  years  ago ;  the  property'll  make 
a  difference." 

"Yes,  that's  why  we  hope  he  mayn't  be  so 
vindictive  now.  And  our  cable  would  have 
thawed  stone.  I  say  'ours,'  but  of  course  Sir 
Noel  doesn't  know  anything  about  me.  We 
couldn't  have  many  words  because  of  the  ex- 
pense, but  they  were  such  touching  words;  Phil 
did  laugh!  Do  you  think  it  looks  bad  that  we 
haven't  heard  yet?" 

"Has  there  been  time  for  a  reply?" 

"Not  by  letter,  no — that's  only  due  by  this 
mail — but  he  could  have  cabled;  he  could  have 
cabled  the  money,  and  we  should  have  been  on 
the  sea  by  now,  and  Phil  wouldn't  have  caught 
camp-fever!  But  then  he's  mean — Phil  says  he 
was  always  mean — a  draft  would  be  so  much 
cheaper;  Phil  didn't  expect  a  cable.  Listen — 
he's  awake !  Wait  a  moment,  I'll  see  if  you  can 
go  in." 

She  hurried  into  the  bedroom,  and  through  the 
open  door  Maurice  could  hear  her  say:  "Well, 
you've  been  asleep.  Let  me  turn  the  pillow  for 
you." 


20  THE  WORLDLINGS 

The  other  tones  were  indistinct. 

So  Jardine  was  the  son  of  a  baronet — the  in- 
telligence had  been  rather  startling — and,  sup- 
plying the  dots  and  crosses,  he  had  done  some- 
thing dishonest  in  the  past?  Well,  so  many  men 
had!  and  the  remembrance  didn't  seem  to  haunt 
them  much.  "Remorse"  was  what  the  well- 
meaning  attributed  to  the  unscrupulous,  to  con- 
sole you  for  their  success — an  invention  of  the 
optimists,  to  restore  the  balance!  And  it  had 
happened  ages  ago,  and  nobody  had  known.  If 
he  recovered,  Jardine  would  doubtless  go  home 
now,  and  lounge  in  the  club  windows,  and  admire 
the  prospect  of  twenty  thousand  a  year.  What  a 
life  was  awaiting  him;  how  incredible  a  change! 

The  sick  man's  thoughts  were  evidently  flow- 
ing in  the  same  channel,  and  on  a  sudden  his 
voice  reached  the  parlour  thinly: 

"Cable  to  the  governor,"  he  was  saying;  "cable 
to  the  governor.  Nearly  eighty,  and  lived  them 
all  out!  .  .  .  Twenty  thousand  a  year,  what  a 
splash!  .  .  .  My  God!  .  .  .  Can't  take  it  with 
him!  Rosa,  where's  Rosa?  Why  don't  you  send 
the  cable?" 

"Yes,  old  boy,  I'm  here.  The  cable  has  gone; 
it's  all  right." 

Then  for  a  few  seconds  there  was  a  low  mut- 
tering, which  sank  to  silence. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  21 

* 

After  some  minutes  had  passed,  the  woman  re- 
appeared in  the  doorway,  with  her  finger  to  her 
lips,  and  Maurice  rose  cautiously  to  meet  her 
whisper. 

"He's  going  off  again;  he  was  delirious — I 
think  I'd  better  stop  there." 

"Good-night,  then,"  he  murmured;  "I'll  come 
in  to-morrow." 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  come  to-morrow.  Good- 
night." 

She  let  him  out  as  noiselessly  as  she  could, 
and  he  stole  across  the  stoep  on  tiptoe  into  the 
street. 


CHAPTER  II 

At  sunset  the  following  evening  rain  began  to 
fall,  and  it  fell  in  floods.  Kimberley  was  inac- 
cessible; the  horses  of  the  Cape  carts,  making 
for  shelter,  were  swept  off  their  feet,  and  a  boiler 
outside  Tarry's  was  washed  down  the  sluit.  For- 
ty-eight hours  had  passed  when  Maurice  reached 
the  cottage  in  Lennox  Street  again ;  and  the  col- 
oured girl,  who  chopped  the  wood,  and  did  the 
cooking,  was  leaving  for  home. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Blake,  sir,  it's  all  over — he's  gone!" 
she  faltered,  stopping. 

Partially  prepared  though  he  had  been  to  hear 
it,  there  was  still  the  shock.  He  whitened  a  lit- 
tle, and  strove  to  disguise  that  he  was  moved. 

"Where's  your  missis?"  he  said.  "Can  I  see 
her?" 

"She's  inside,"  answered  the  girl;  and  Maurice 
pushed  past  her  and  entered. 

The  lamp  had  not  been  lighted,  and  for  the 
first  instant  he  thought  the  parlour  was  empty. 
Then  he  went  forward,  with  his  hand  out- 
stretched. 

22 


THE  WORLDLINGS  23 

"What  can  I  say?"  he  said.  "You  under- 
stand; don't  you?" 

The  woman  lifted  her  face  from  the  sofa  where 
she  was  lying,  and  he  could  see  even  in  the 
shadow  that  she  was  disfigured  with  weeping. 

"He  died  yesterday  afternoon,"  she  said  un- 
steadily.   "How  did  you  hear?" 

"The  servant  just  told  me.  I — I'm  so  sorry. 
...  If  I'm  not  too  late,  you  must  let  me  do  what 
has  to  be  done,"  he  continued  after  a  pause.  'You 
haven't  anybody  to  turn  to  here." 

"Not  here  nor  anywhere  else!"  she  said,  rais- 
ing herself  slowly.  "Light  the  lamp,  will  you? 
I  can't  see  where  anything  is." 

He  did  as  she  wished,  and  sought  awkwardly 
for  some  phrase  of  consolation.  The  despair  in 
her  manner  perturbed  him,  for  he  had  never  cred- 
ited her  with  the  devotion  that  would  explain  it, 
and  he  was  doubtful  whether  he  was  asked  to 
attribute  it  to  the  loss  of  her  husband,  or  the  loss 
of  her  expectations.  Her  tone  when  she  spoke 
next  relieved  him. 

"Look,"  she  said,  pointing  to  an  envelope  on 
the  mantelpiece;  "the  mail  is  in.  I  sent  the  girl 
to  the  post-office  to-day,  and  his  father  had  writ- 
ten !  He  sends  a  hundred  pounds  and  wants  him 
back.    Look!" 

She  thrust  the  envelope  into  his  hands  and  he 


24  THE  WORLDLINGS 

read  the  contents.  The  note  that  accompanied 
the  draft — it  could  not  be  called  a  letter — was  a 
little  formal,  he  thought,  even  in  the  circum- 
stances, a  little  stilted:  the  note  of  an  old  man; 
but  it  was  not  unkindly  couched.  The  heading 
— Croft  Court,  Oakenhurst,  Surrey — suggested 
vague  splendours  to  his  mind. 

"That's  rough,"  he  said,  returning  the  papers. 
"And  it  came  too  late  for  your  husband  to  know !" 

She  made  a  movemnet  of  impatience.  "Phil 
wouldn't  have  known  even  if  the  mail  had  come 
in  vesterdav;  he  w-as  unconscious  for  hours  be- 
fore  he  died.  Rough?  Why,  yes,  it's  pretty 
rough,  isn't  it?  If  the  money  had  been  cabled, 
or  if  we  had  only  cabled  a  month  before  we  did 

Well,  it's  no  good  talking  about  that! — we 

cabled  as  soon  as  we  happened  to  read  the  news 
— that's  not  what  I  blame  myself  for." 

"What  then?"  he  said;  "what  can  you  blame 
yourself  for,  Mrs.  Jardine?" 

She  made  no  answer.  She  began  to  wander 
about  the  room,  her  handkerchief  bitten  between 
her  teeth. 

"You  won't  be  penniless,"  he  said.  "His  fa- 
ther will  do  something  for  vou.  If  he  was  ready 
to  make  it  up  with  his  son,  he'll  hardly  turn  his 
back  on  the  widow.  He  won't  let  you  starve, 
Mrs.  Jardine." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  25 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  calling  me  that," 
she  burst  out:  "it's  not  mv  name!  Call  me  Mrs. 
Fleming.  I'm  Rosa  Fleming,  that's  what  my 
name  is!  .   .   .  Now  do  you  see?" 

"Oh,  remarked  Maurice,  "yes,  I  see.  That 
makes  it  rougher." 

"Phil  was  going  to  marry  me,"  she  went  on 
vehemently;  "if  he'd  lived,  he'd  have  married 
me!  I  could  have  been  his  wife  a  year  ago  if 
I'd  liked — two  years  ago — but  I  didn't  care; 
there  was  no  reason  for  it;  what  did  it  matter 
then?  Oh,  if  I  could  have  seen  ahead!  What  a 
fool  I  was !  what  a  fool,  what  a  fool !  And  now, 
I  tell  you,  he'd  have  married  me  if  he'd  got  well ; 
and  I  should  have  been  Lady  Jardine  soon.  And 
he  dies,  he  dies,  just  when  he's  wanted,  after  I've 
stuck  to  him  for  years!"  She  stood  still,  and 
seemed  to  try  to  repress  her  excitement.  "Have 
you  got  any  courage?"  she  said.  He  looked  an 
inquiry.  "Have  you  got  any  courage?"  she  re- 
peated. "I've  something  to  propose  to  you.  I 
don't  suppose  for  a  moment  that  you'll  do  it ;  but 
don't  cry  out  that  it's  'impossible'  when  I  tell 
you !  I've  been  thinking  of  it  all  day,  and  it  isn't 
impossible ;  it's  as  easy  as  falling  off  a  log.  Will 
you  go  back  to  England  in  Phil's  place?" 

"Willi ?"    He  sat  staring  at  her.  "How?" 


26  THE  WORLDLINGS 

.  .  .  But  he  saw  how.  The  consciousness  that  it 
might  be  done  was  throbbing  in  him. 

"Who  would  have  any  suspicion?"  she  said 
eagerly;  "you  know  how  much  alike  you  were! 
Do  you  think,  after  twenty-three  years,  an  old 
man  who  is  expecting  him — who  is  expecting 
him,  mind  you — is  going  to  tell  the  difference?" 

"The  old  man  isn't  everyone,"  he  murmured; 
"there'd  be  some  relation,  with  hopes,  who 
wouldn't  be  satisfied  so  easily.  .  .  .  Besides,  I've 
always  run  straight.  Leaving  the  risk  aside,  I 
— I've  always  run  straight." 

"Haven't  I  told  you  that  there  isn't  any  rela- 
tion to  succeed  him?  Oh,  if  you  won't  do  it,  say 
so  at  once,  but  for  heaven's  sake  don't  argue.  I 
know!  I  know  that  the  father  is  the  only  rela- 
tive Phil  had  alive — I  know  it  for  a  fact.  There 
is  no  earthly  reason  why  you  should  be  doubted. 
I  don't  think  that  either  of  you  ever  realised  how 
great  the  likeness  was.  Did  I  show  you  that 
article  on  'people  with  doubles'?  They  were  cele- 
brated people,  with  the  names  of  the  doubles  un- 
der their  pictures.  There  wasn't  a  case  of  a 
stronger  resemblance  than  yours  to  Phil,  not  one ! 
He  was  stouter  than  you,  his  nose  widened  more, 
there  was  some  grey  in  his  beard;  but  the  shape 
of  your  foreheads,  of  your  faces,  the  colour  of 
your  eyes,  and  the  way  they  were  set,  all  the 


THE  WORLDLINGS  27 

points  that  matter  were  the  same.  If  you  had 
trimmed  your  beards  and  done  your  hair  the  same 
way,  I  believe  you  could  have  passed  for  one  an- 
other anvwhere.  If  the  old  man  saw  no  likeness 
in  you  to  the  boy  he  remembers  at  nineteen,  he 
would  have  doubted  Phil  himself!" 

He  did  not  speak ;  he  sat  smoking  furiously. 

"I  can  tell  you  everything,"  she  said,  pacing 
the  room  again;  "I  know  all  his  life.  If  I  had 
never  heard  it  before,  I  should  have  heard  it  all 
a  hundred  times  over  in  the  last  month.  After 
we  read  of  the  succession,  he  talked  of  nothing 
else.  Hour  after  hour  he  has  sat  where  you  are 
sitting  now,  and  maundered  about  his  boyhood. 
I  can  tell  you  about  his  cousin  Guy  who  was 
drowned,  and  his  cousin  Minnie  that  he  was  in 
love  with ;  and  that  Minnie  married  a  civil  engi- 
neer, and  went  to  Canada,  and  died  in  Montreal. 
I  can  tell  you  about  the  row  with  his  father  when 
he  was  expelled  from  school,  and  another  row 
when  he  ran  away  from  home,  and  pawned  the 
watch  that  his  father  had  left  at  a  jeweller's  to 
be  cleaned;  and  that  his  father  engaged  a  tutor 
for  him,  and  dismissed  the  tutor — who  was  called 
Benson — because  he  found  out  that  Benson  and 
Phil  used  to  go  on  the  spree  together.  I — good- 
ness, what  couldn't  I  tell  you!" 


28  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"Could  you  tell  me  what  he  did,"  said  the  man, 
"that  his  father  washed  his  hands  of  him?" 

"No,"  she  admitted,  "that  I  don't  know  quite; 
he  was  never  explicit  about  that." 

"So  it  must  have  been  bad.  I  should  be  taking 
a  name  that  has  been  disgraced." 

"But  it  was  kept  quiet,"  she  put  in  quickly; 
"I  do  know  that.  It  was  between  his  father  and 
him.     Not  a  soul  heard — I  can  swear  it!" 

"You  mean  he  swore  it.     But  he  may  have 

"  He  remembered  suddenly  that  Jardine  lay 

in  the  next  room  dead,  and  checked  himself.  "It 
mayn't  have  been  true,"  he  added. 

"Why  should  he  have  deceived  me  about  it? 
There  was  no  motive:  it  made  no  difference  to 
me  one  way  or  the  other.  No,  if  his  father  hadn't 
hushed  the  thing  up,  I  think  Phil  would  have 
been  rather  glad  to  say  so;  he  Mas  always  glad 
to  say  as  much  against  his  father  as  he  could." 

He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  re- 
filled it,  and  she  watched  him  till  the  tobacco  was 
fairly  aglow. 

"Anyhow,"  he  demurred  again,  "his  father 
knew!  I  should  be  in  the  dark  about  the  princi- 
pal event." 

"Is  it  likely  that  Phil  would  have  referred  to 
it  himself  if  he'd  gone  back?    If  anybody  raked 


THE  WORLDLINGS  29 

it  up,  it  would  be  Sir  Noel.    It  wouldn't  be  diffi- 
cult to  make  appropriate  answers." 

"You  say  there  were  no  relations,"  he  said 
meditatively;  "but  there  are  other  people.  There 
must  be  lawyers,  friends,  servants,  half  a  hun- 
dred people  who  knew  him  before  he  went 
abroad?" 

"Before  he  was  nineteen!  And  there  would  be 
very  few.  Remember  that  his  father  wasn't  Sir 
Noel  then.  He  lived  in  a  house  in  Adelaide  Road 
— if  you  know  where  that  is — and  never  dreamt 
of  anything  better.  And  Phil  was  away  at  school 
most  of  the  time,  too.  Even  if  any  old  friends 
visit  the  Baronet,  there  can  hardly  be  one  that 
it  would  need  much  nerve  to  face.  Oh!"  she  ex- 
claimed, "how  can  you  hesitate?  Think  what  it 
is:  Croft  Court  and  everything  to  be  yours — 
yours!  Do  you  grasp  what  it  means?  I  tell  you 
I  can  post  you  up  in  every  detail  enough  for  a 
witness-box,  far  more  than  enough  for  what's  re- 
quired. It's  so  simple,  there's  nothing  to  be  done. 
You  haven't  to  turn  anyone  out,  there's  nobody 
to  fight  your  claim — it  isn't  like  the  Tichborne 
case.  Why,  if  it's  necessary  I  can  declare  that 
I've  known  you  as  'Philip  Jardine'  for  the  last 
ten  years!" 

"I  wouldn't  do  that  if  I  were  you,"  he  said; 
"it  wouldn't  be  convincing,  and  you'd  be  wise  to 


30  THE  WORLDLINGS 

take  your  share  of  the  loot,  and  not  show  in  the 
matter  at  all.  .  .  .  If  anything  went  wrong  then, 
it  would  all  fall  on  me,  and  you  wouldn't  he  in- 
dicted for  conspiracy.    What  is  it  you  suggest?" 

She  flashed  a  glance  of  appreciation.  "Do  you 
mean  what  share?  Give  me  a  quarter,  and  a 
chance  to  make  as  good  a  match  as  Phil  would 
have  been!  That's  all  I  want.  A  quarter  of 
everything  as  long  as  I  live,  and  to  be  introduced 
into  society."  Her  tongue  dwelt  lovingly  on  the 
word.    "Is  it  fair?" 

'Yes,  I  should  think  it  would  be  quite  fair," 
he  said,  "if  I  committed  the  fraud.  Well,  I'll 
think  about  it.  You  don't  expect  me  to  say  more 
than  that  to-night?" 

She  had  not  originally  expected  that  he  would 
say  so  much,  nor  had  he ;  he  trembled  as  he  real- 
ised the  enormitv  of  his  defection.  Yet  the  sen- 
sation  was  exhilarating  rather  than  unpleasant. 
He  perceived  with  a  vague  self -wonder  that  the 
reluctance  he  felt  was  due,  less  to  the  horror  of 
dishonesty,  which  he  had  always  believed  uncon- 
querable, than  to  a  sentimental  aversion  from 
profiting  by  the  other  man's  loss.  He  was  also 
aware  that  he  was  combating  the  reluctance. 
Then  the  recollection  pierced  him  that  he  had 
offered  to  arrange  for  the  burial,  and  in  the  mo- 
ment that  the  thought  came,  all  desire  to  em- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  31 

brace  her  suggestion  fell  from  him.  He  was 
thrilled  by  the  hideousness  of  the  course  that  he 
had  contemplated  and  tried  to  believe  that  he  had 
been  guilty  of  nothing  but  a  temporary  aberra- 
tion. With  great  difficulty  he  forced  himself  to 
approach  the  subject  of  the  interment,  and  his 
relief  was  intense  when  he  heard  that  nothing 
remained  for  him  to  do. 

"Would  you  care  to  see  him  before  you  go?" 
inquired  the  woman  in  a  low  voice. 

He  did  not  know  how  she  could  ask  him  such 
a  question ;  he  shook  his  head  and  shuddered.  It 
seemed  to  her  rather  brutal  of  him.  But  men 
were  like  that !  For  herself,  the  bitterness,  which 
had  had  its  birth  in  her  despair,  had  faded  as  the 
despair  decreased,  and  she  could  think  of  Jar- 
dine's  faults  with  pity. 

Maurice  took  leave  of  her,  and  went  back  to 
Clacy's  Hotel,  and  pondered.  Before  he  slept  the 
day  was  breaking,  and  when  he  made  his  way  to 
Bultfontein  he  felt  but  half  awake.  The  con- 
versation of  the  preceding  evening  seemed  to 
have  occurred  a  long  while  ago,  and  in  the  raw 
light  the  proposal  no  longer  dazzled  him  nor 
looked  feasible.  It  was  only  as  the  hours  wore 
by  that  the  spell  reasserted  itself  in  part.  He 
was  not  considering  acquiescence  now,  but  the 
thought   that  he  might   acquiesce   if  he   would 


32  THE  WORLDLINGS 

lifted  some  of  the  despondence  from  his  heart. 
As  he  stood  watching  the  rising  and  falling  of 
the  niggers'  picks  in  the  burning  glare  of  the  sun, 
a  touch  of  buoyancy  was  communicated  to  his 
mood  by  the  knowledge  that  the  chance  was  there. 
It  was  there.  Release  was  possible  if  he  chose 
to  accept  it.  It  was  in  his  own  power  to  be  done 
with  all  this  to-morrow,  to-day!  He  might  turn 
from  this  grey  waste  of  ground,  if  he  would,  and 
never  look  on  it  again.  He  could  go  to  England, 
to  prosperity,  to  a  life  of  pleasure,  at  the  risk 

of Yes,  at  the  risk  of  penal  servitude!    But 

the  probability  of  detection  was  not  very  great, 
he  opined;  he  knew  that  it  was  not  fear  of  ex- 
posure that  was  deterring  him,  but  the  fear  of 
his  own  conscience.  He  would  be  a  swindler! 
No!  he  was  beside  himself  to  consider  the  pros- 
pect. .  .  . 

Yet  he  could  go  if  he  would!  And  there  was 
no  heir  to  the  property ;  he  wouldn't  be  wronging 
anyone — only  the  Crown,  something  impersonal, 
an  abstraction.  If  he  failed,  he  would  pay  the 
penalty  of  his  act;  and  if  he  succeeded,  the  suf- 
fering, should  there  be  any,  would  be  his,  too. 
What  duty  was  owed  to  anyone  but  himself  in 
the  matter?  Did  he  owe  anything  to  the  com- 
munity— the  "community"  that  meant  a  multi- 
tude of  self-centred  individuals  amongst  whom 


THE  WORLDLINGS  33 

he  had  starved,  the  community  that  was  as  a  wall 
of  indifference  against  which  he  had  beaten  his 
hands  until  they  bled?  He  might  have  grasped 
ease  and  risen  beyond  the  reach  of  this  tempta- 
tion, if  the  guiding  principles  of  the  community 
had  been  his  own — if  he  had  walked  through 
muddy  waters,  and  climbed  dirty  ladders,  and 
sacrificed  his  scruples  to  expedience! 

But  "no,"  and  again  "no" !  The  day  dragged 
on,  and  the  sun  sank  behind  the  sorting-shed,  and 
he  tramped  along  the  dusty  road  once  more,  still 
telling  himself  that  he  would  not  do  it.  He  told 
-  himself  so  as  he  ate  his  dinner  amid  the  badinage 
of  the  overseers  and  the  cocknev's  wife  and 
daughter;  and  he  said  it  while  the  riot  of  their 
laughter  reached  him  after  he  had  sought  peace 

in  his  room.    He  would  not  do  it;  and  vet 

His  yearning  shook  him,  and  he  caught  his 
breath.  .  .  . 

He  remembered  that  Mrs.  Fleming  was  wait- 
ing for  his  answer;  he  would  not  go  to  her  until 
he  had  decided!  If  he  refused,  his  refusal  must 
be  steadfast,  proof  against  persuasion.  If  he 
agreed,  he  would  agree  because  it  was  his  will. 
There  should  be  no  reproach  attaching  to  her 
afterwards  for  having  overruled  him.  He  would 
do  the  thing  of  his  own  determination ;  doggedly 


34  THE  WORLDLINGS 

— saying  "yes"  because  he  had  meant  to  say 
"yes";  choosing  his  path,  and  taking  it. 

She  was  waiting  for  him  in  suspense.  Jardine 
had  been  buried  that  afternoon,  and  as  she  paced 
the  parlour,  she  was  questioning  if  the  name  on 
the  coffin  had  put  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the 
scheme.  The  thought  frightened  her;  but  it  was 
not  an  uncommon  name,  and  no  one  had  known 
him.  He  would  be  one  stranger  more  who  had 
dropped  out  of  the  bars,  that  was  all.  Left  or 
dead;  nobody  would  inquire,  or  comment  on  his 
absence.  Surely  it  couldn't  matter?  The  fever 
of  her  inspiration  had  passed,  and  she  felt  feeble ; 
she  felt  that  she  wanted  a  man's  mind  to  lean 
on  now,  someone  who  would  conduct  the  affair 
for  her,  and  be  authoritative  and  sanguine.  She 
recalled  men  who  would  have  shown  their  best 
qualities  in  such  a  situation. 

Would  Blake  consent?  If  he  were  afraid, 
what  should  she  do  with  herself?  She  had  been 
in  equal  straits  more  than  once,  and  she  looked 
back  at  them  for  encouragement,  but  the  woman 
seemed  somebody  else ;  she  wondered  how  she  had 
been  so  brave.  She  saw  dimly  the  time  when  she 
had  lived  on  fifteen  shillings  a  week  in  Islington, 
and  worn  a  fashionable  frock,  which  did  not  be- 
long to  her,  in  the  race-scene  at  a  theatre.  She 
had  been  seventeen  then,  and  life  was  all  before 


THE  WORLDLINGS  35 

her.  Though  she  was  only  one  of  the  "extra 
girls,"  Fleming  had  married  her.  Poor  Harry! 
If  he  had  lived,  perhaps  he  would  have  been  a 

big  actor  to-day,  and  she ?    She  had  been  so 

helpless,  left  without  money  in  New  York.  What 
memories!  The  situation  in  the  cigar-store  on 
Third  Avenue  .  .  .  her  own  flat  in  East  Thir- 
teenth Street,  where  the  first  fiats  in  New  York 
had  just  been  built.  That  was  in  '67,  and  she  was 
twenty  years  old.  O  beautiful  time  when  she  was 
twenty!  If  only  she  had  known  as  much  as  she 
knew  now!  .  .  .  Travel;  at  her  wits'  end  in 
Caracas- — the  result  of  a  caprice.  .  .  .  California, 
Phil.  What  her  life  had  held!  Was  it  all  to  be- 
gin again?  Here,  in  this  desert  at  the  world's 
end?  She  was  no  longer  so  young,  and  then  she 
had  not  been  dashed  from  the  summit  of  expecta- 
tion. All  of  her  past  emotions  that  were  vivid 
to  her  were  those  of  the  last  month,  the  daily, 
hourly  thought  of  wealth  and  position.  In  fancy 
she  had  lived  in  Mayfair,  and  bought  dresses  and 
jewels,  and  entered  ballrooms,  holding  her  head 
high  among  the  best  women  in  England.  She 
had  foretasted  their  envy,  and  the  admiration  of 
the  men.  The  scent  of  the  flowers  had  been  in 
her  nostrils,  and  she  had  seen  the  lights,  and 
heard  her  carriage  called.     And  now  there  .was 


36  THE  WORLDLINGS 

nothing,  and  she  was  left  like  Cinderella  in  her 
rags ! 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  a  Cape  cart  stopped 
outside  the  cottage.  She  ran  to  the  door.  Mau- 
rice sprang  out,  and  came  into  the  room  quickly. 
His  face  was  white,  and  his  voice  quivered  a 
little.     "I'll  do  it!"  he  said. 

She  gave  a  gasp  of  relief,  and  hegan  to  cry, 
and  he  took  her  hands  and  told  her  that  they 
were  going  to  succeed,  and  that  she  musn't  break 
down  now  that  it  was  settled.  Then  he  made  her 
drink  some  whisky,  and  swallowed  some  himself, 
and  she  uttered  her  misgiving. 

'You  won't  have  a  stone  on  the  grave,"  he  said, 
"you  wouldn't  be  able  to  pay  for  one  in  any  case; 
and  you  needn't  publish  an  announcement  of  the 
death.  There's  nothing  in  the  rest.  Where  is 
the  draft?    I  shall  have  to  endorse  that." 

She  drew  it  from  her  pocket,  and  he  read  it 
again : 

"  'At  sight — Philip  Noel  Jardine — one  hun- 
dred pounds.'  I'll  bring  you  the  money  as  soon 
as  I  get  it." 

"Will  your  writing  do?"  she  asked  anxiously. 
"I  had  forgotten  your  having  to  sign." 

"The  bank  doesn't  know  his  signature,  does 
it?" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  37 


"Oh,  no,"  she  exclaimed;  "I'm  losing  my 
head!" 

"Well,  if  there's  any  difficulty  about  the  hand- 
writing, it  won't  be  here — it  will  be  afterwards, 
when  we're  in  England.  But  we  depend  on  the 
likeness — that's  what  we're  pinning  our  faith  to. 
If  there  was  as  strong  a  likeness  as  we  think, 
we  needn't  worry  much  about  anything  else." 

His  composure  had  returned,  and  the  coolness 
with  which  he  found  himself  able  to  calculate 
probabilities,  now  that  his  resolution  had  been 
made,  seemed  strange  to  him.  They  talked  till 
late.  Jardine  had  taken  the  cottage,  furnished, 
for  six  months,  on  his  arrival,  and  the  final  pay- 
ment was  due.  It  was  arranged  that  on  the  mor- 
row Rosa  should  see  the  agent  and  satisfy  his 
claim.  But  the  cost  of  a  passage  to  England  was 
large,  and  the  remittance  had  been  designed  for 
only  one  person ;  therefore  ways  and  means  were 
a  serious  consideration.  They  must  not  land 
without  a  few  pounds  in  their  pockets;  after 
reaching  London  the  man  would  proceed  to  Sur- 
rey, and  the  woman  must  have  money  to  stay  at 
some  little  hotel  in  town  while  she  awaited  assist- 
ance from  him.  On  the  steamer,  and  wherever 
it  was  possible,  they  would  have  to  travel  second- 
class. 

"And  there  are  the  last  two  visits  of  the  doc- 


38  THE  WORLDLINGS 

tor,"  she  said;  "there  are  the  doctor  and  the  un- 
dertaker, besides  the  rent.  And  there's  the  girl! 
there's  a  pound  due  to  her.  Is  it  necessary  to 
settle  with  everyone,  do  you  think?" 

"I  would,  if  I  were  you,"  he  said.  "I've  saved 
a  tenner,  and  if  we  go  at  once,  I  shall  have  some- 
thing left  out  of  this  week's  screw — oh,  I  should 
pay  up !"  He  did  not  perceive  the  anomaly,  but 
he  was  embarking  on  a  gigantic  fraud,  and  the 
idea  of  not  "paying  up"  was  repugnant  to  him. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday,  and  his  wages 
would  be  forthcoming  at  two  o'clock.  But,  if  he 
waited  till  two  o'clock  the  bank  would  have  closed 
before  he  reached  it.  Even  if  he  authorised  an- 
other overseer  to  collect  the  wages,  he  would  not 
be  able  to  reach  the  bank  soon  enough,  unless  he 
left  the  floors  surreptitiously  during  the  morning. 
He  wouldn't  do  that,  so  he-did  not  cash  the  draft 
until  Monday. 

It  was  his  first  keen  pang — and  the  first  time 
that  he  had  been  inside  a  bank  for  years.  The 
clerk  made  the  stereotyped  inquiry,  and  he  "took 
it"  in  ten-pound  notes.  Nobody  noticed  him  when 
he  passed  into  Main  Street,  and  he  was  vaguely 
surprised  that  he  didn't  look  conspicuous:  he  had 
come  out  a  thief.  His  life  of  struggle,  and  his 
day  and  night's  resistance  were  now  as  nothing; 
the  plunge  had  been  made ! 


THE  WORLDLINGS  39 

He  went  with  the  money  to  Mrs.  Fleming  im- 
mediately, and  in  the  afternoon  she  drove  out  to 
the  agent's.  On  the  way  back  she  stopped  at  a 
draper's,  and  bought  a  yard  of  black  ribbon  to 
twist  in  the  place  of  the  red  roses  that  she  was 
wearing  in  her  hat.  Some  sign  of  mourning!  in 
a  white  frock  she  would  not  feel  heartless.  Sud- 
denly it  struck  her  that  if  Maurice's  linen  bore 
his  initials,  they  must  be  altered;  and  on  her  re- 
turn she  cried  to  him  that  the  oversight  might 
have  ruined  all  their  plans.  It  was  a  disappoint- 
ment to  her  to  hear  that  the  point  had  already 
occurred  to  him,  but  that  the  only  marks  his  linen 
had  borne  for  at  least  a  decade  were  the  hiero- 
glyphics sewn  upon  it  by  the  laundress. 

Maurice  engaged  two  second-class  berths  in 
the  name  of  "Mrs.  Fleming"  and  "Philip  Jar- 
dine,"  and  their  preparations  were  made  with 
haste.  There  was  then  a  six  days'  journey  by  a 
ramshackle  coach  before  the  railway  was  reached, 
and  three  mornings  later,  while  the  dust  blew 
down  Stockdale  Street  in  clouds,  he  and  she  were 
among  the  twelve  passengers  who  started  for  the 
Colony. 

To  both  the  man  and  woman  that  journey 
seemed  eternal.  Their  one  engrossing  thought 
could  not  be  spoken,  and  there  was  little  con- 
versation to  divert  them.    Hour  after  hour  they 


40  THE  WORLDLINGS 

jolted  over  the  barren  plains  in  silence.  Often 
the  bones  of  a  horse  lay  bleached  by  the  road- 
side, picked  by  the  vultures;  sometimes  a  herd 
of  springbok  bounded  from  their  approach  in 
fear.  Opposite  Maurice  an  elderly  Boer  whit- 
tled biltong  almost  incessantly,  stuffing  it  into 
his  mouth  with  filthy  fingers;  and  indeed  there 
were  few  opportunities  for  anyone  to  wash.  The 
squalid  houses  were  far  apart,  and  the  accom- 
modation provided  for  the  travellers  was  barely 
possible.  Occasionally  nothing  remained  to  eat 
but  what  the  inmates  had  just  left  upon  the  table 
— some  stiffening  stew,  and  sour,  brown  bread, 
and  rancid  butter.  Once,  when  the  mules  had 
just  been  outspanned,  and  rolled  on  their  backs 
in  the  dust,  Maurice  drew  near  to  her.  Thev 
were  for  the  moment  alone,  and  he  was  athirst 
to  hear  their  project  voiced.  Temporarily,  how- 
ever, her  meditations  had  taken  another  turn,  and 
all  she  said  was,  "Do  I  look  very  dirty?"  At 
night  they  tried  to  snatch  a  few  hours'  sleep  in 
the  hovels — the  women  sometimes  outside  a  bed, 
and  the  men  below,  stretched  on  their  rugs  on  the 
floor;  but  their  rest  was  brief,  and  the  shout  of 
the  driver  wakened  them  to  gulp  scalding  coffee, 
and  jolt  away,  across  the  veldt  again,  through  the 
dawn. 

At  last  Beaufort  West  and  the  luxury  of  a 


THE  WORLDLINGS  41 

railway-compartment  was  reached;  and  after  a 
day  and  a  night  in  the  train,  Maurice  and  she 
drove  out  of  the  Cape  Town  station. 

On  the  steamer,  discussion  of  their  scheme  was 
practicable,  and  they  rarely  talked  of  anything 
else.  She  had  not  exaggerated  when  she  declared 
that  she  could  furnish  him  with  a  host  of  particu- 
lars of  the  career  of  the  man  whose  character  he 
was  assuming;  and  though  most  of  them  per- 
tained to  the  period  of  her  acquaintance  with 
Jardine,  and  were  not  calculated  to  gratify  his 
father,  those  that  had  reference  to  his  boyhood 
were  numerous  too.  Maurice  felt  that  if  he  were 
accepted  on  his  entry,  he  would  be  secure. 

He  had  made  his  choice,  and  when  a  qualm 
came — for  qualms  did  come,  though  he  would  not 
let  her  know  it — he  repeated  the  fact.  He  had 
made  his  choice — and  deliberately,  in  possession 
of  all  his  senses.  He  had  no  excuse  to  humour 
his  conscience  now!  Even  if  he  were  to  break 
the  compact  and  refuse  to  proceed  any  further 
with  the  undertaking,  he  would  still  have  stolen; 
he  would  not  be  honest  again,  he  would  only  be 
a  coward.  He  had  never  pitied  the  criminals 
who  canted  after  they  had  committed  the  deed. 
He  strove  to  put  compunction  from  him  as  reso- 
lutely as  he  had  striven  to  put  away  temptation. 
When  you  had  taken  a  hand,  you  played  it  out; 


42  THE  WORLDLINGS 

if  you  couldn't  afford  the  game,  you  shouldn't 
have  sat  down!  Nor  save  in  moments  did  he 
regret  the  step. 

Far  more  frequent  than  moments  of  regret 
were  those  of  passionate  foretaste.  The  woman 
had  seen  herself  "Lady  Jardine,"  but  the  man's 
imagination  seldom  extended  an  equal  distance. 
It  intoxicated  him  enough  to  picture  himself  in 
the  position  of  the  heir.  Almost  he  was  sorry 
that  a  title  was  in  question.  Money  was  all  he 
wanted;  if  Sir  Noel  had  been  a  stockbroker  and 
lived  in  a  West-central  square,  the  situation 
would  have  been  easier  to  conceive.  "Croft 
Court"  rang  rather  alarmingly;  what  wrere  such 
places  like?  His  only  idea  of  them  had  been 
gathered  from  the  illustrated  papers.  He  be- 
lieved them  to  lie  behind  gates  bearing  heraldic 
devices  of  deep  significance.  Good  heavens, 
would  he  be  expected  to  understand  heraldry? 

Vet  success  would  give  him  this  Croft  Court 
for  his  own  one  day,  and  twenty  thousand  a  year! 
As  the  steamer  throbbed  on  and  he  watched  the 
wide  glitter  of  the  sea,  he  tried  to  realise  what 
it  would  mean.  Ten  would  have  conveyed  as 
much  to  him;  thirty  would  have  dazzled  him  no 
more.  Twenty  thousand  a  year,  less  Rosa  Flem- 
ing's  share!  Drunk  with  excitement,  and  behold- 
ing in  fancy  the  fulfilment  of  all  that  he  had 


THE  WORLDLINGS  43 

ached  for,  he  was  not  spending  half  of  such  a 
rent-roll,  and  he  knew  it.  He  could  not  con- 
jecture what  he  would  do  with  wealth  like  that, 
what  anybody  could  do  with  it;  it  looked  limit- 
less. He  saw  luxury,  extravagance,  wild  months 
in  the  gayest  of  the  capitals,  costly  presents  to 
beautiful  women — but  fifteen  thousand  a  year  to 
squander  as  he  pleased!  To  contemplate  it  diz- 
zied him. 

The  weeks  lagged  heavily,  and  his  suspense 
grew  almost  intolerable.  He  was  on  fire  to  ar- 
rive, to  put  his  effrontery  to  the  test,  to  know 
that  he  had  won  or  lost.  It  appeared  to  him 
that  the  voyage  had  occupied  months,  and  the 
monotonous  pulsations  of  the  engines  that  he 
could  not  accelerate  by  a  single  beat  became  mad- 
dening to  him. 

The  last  of  the  stoppages  until  Plymouth  was 
reached  occurred  at  Madeira;  but  the  fares  did 
not  include  free  railway-tickets,  and  to  Rosa  and 
him  the  passage  would  end  only  with  the  London 
docks. 

It  was  on  a  dull  afternoon  that  they  were  in 
sight,  and  as  the  vessel  floated  alongside  the  quay, 
his  throat  tightened.  She  and  he  leant  with 
others  over  the  taffrail;  like  him  she  was  very 
pale.  The  crowd  about  them  were  looking 
eagerly  for  expected  faces,  and  from  a  group 


44  THE  WORLDLINGS 

ashore  a  cheer  came  up;  it  seemed  to  her  a  good 
omen. 

"I'm  glad  of  that!"  she  said.  "Have  you  got 
the  wire?" 

He  nodded;  he  was  telegraphing  to  the  Baro- 
net. He  had  written:  "With  you  this  evening 
—Phil." 

"We're  near  the  crisis  now!"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

There  were  the  final  delays,  and  then  the  gang- 
way was  made  fast,  and  they  stood  in  England, 
waiting  for  their  luggage  to  be  swung  down. 
When  they  were  free  to  depart  they  rattled  to  a 
private  hotel  in  Bloomsbury  that  had  been  ad- 
vertised in  the  ship's  copy  of  the  "A.B.C.,"  and 
here  the  woman  elected  to  remain  for  the  present. 

The  next  train  to  Oakenhurst  was  found  to 
leave  Waterloo  at  5.15,  and,  as  he  had  plenty  of 
time  to  spare,  they  ordered  a  meal  for  two  in 
the  dreary  coffee-room,  where  they  were  the  only 
visitors. 

The  fire  had  burnt  low,  and  the  room  was  very 
chillv.  A  huskv  waiter  brought  them  an  over- 
cooked  steak,  and  they  sat  at  the  table  by  the 
window,  talking  desultorily,  while  dusk  gathered 
in  the  street.  When  Maurice  had  promised  re- 
peatedly that  at  the  earliest  moment  possible  she 
'should  hear  what  happened,  their  pauses  were 


THE  WORLDLINGS  45 

very  frequent;  all  that  they  could  say  yet  had 
been  said  so  often. 

Nevertheless,  after  a  hansom  had  been  stopped 
and  he  had  got  inside,  their  eyes  met  as  if  both 
were  conscious  that  it  was  only  words  that  were 
lacking.  She  had  gone  to  the  door  with  him,  and 
then  followed  him  to  the  kerb. 

"You  won't  forget  to  send  a  quarter  of  the 
money,"  she  whispered,  "as  soon  as  you  get  some? 
Remember  this  won't  be  enough  for  the  week's 
bill!" 

"A  quarter  of  everything!  depend  on  me.  Are 
you  sure  it  satisfies  you?" 

"Give  me  a  quarter  of  all  you  get,  and  I'll 
end  a  duchess!"  she  said.     "Luck!" 

"Luck!"  he  said;  and  the  cab  sped  away  into 
the  roar. 

He  looked  out  at  London  and  realised  that  he 
was  here.  The  figures  in  the  streets  could  still 
be  distinguished,  for  the  tradesmen  had  not  low- 
ered their  shutters  yet.  It  was  London,  with  its 
shining  shops,  its  moving  multitude.  The  brutal 
black  city  was  fair  in  his  sight,  even  as  Friday's 
sister  would  have  been  fair  to  Crusoe.  The  best 
of  it  might  be  his  at  last!  ...  By  audacity  and 
deceit?  Well — he  set  his  teeth — they  were  the 
weapons  of  the  world,  and  it  had  been  the  world 
against  him! 


CHAPTER  III 

Since  the  change  of  trains  at  six  o'clock,  the 
journey  had  been  painfully  slow,  and  now  he 
glanced  at  the  name  on  the  white  board  again, 
to  assure  himself  that  he  had  actually  arrived. 
Across  the  palings  of  the  little  gravelled  station 
the  view  was  dark  and  dispiriting,  and  after  two 
labourers  had  crossed  the  line,  he,  and  the  youth 
who  took  his  ticket,  had  the  platform  to  them- 
selves. No  conveyance  was  waiting,  the  youth 
said  firmly,  but  it  was  conceded,  in  colloquy  with 
a  companion  who  answered  to  "Hi,  Jock,"  that 
a  trap  might  be  obtained. 

Croft  Court  was  about  two  miles  distant,  and 
Oakenhurst — or  as  much  of  it  as  the  few  widely- 
divided  lamps  permitted  Maurice  to  see  from  the 
trap — looked  forlorn.  The  place  seemed  to  him 
to  consist  of  long  black  roads,  punctuated  by 
the  glimmer  of  saddened  ale-houses. 

It  had  often  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
address  the  wrong  man  as  "Father,"  if  any  other 
were  present,  and  he  was  considering  the  possi- 
bility of  the  blunder  again  when  the  lodge  gates 
were  reached.    He  reverted  to  the  conviction  that 

46 


THE  WORLDLINGS  4.7 

the  Baronet  would  desire  to  be  alone  at  such  a 
time,  but  in  the  drive  through  the  long  avenue 
his  heart  beat  thickly.  He  had  been  unprepared 
for  the  size  of  the  house,  and  the  appearance  of 
the  dim  quadrangle  staggered  him.  The  driver 
pulled  up  at  an  entrance  that  suggested  a  mon- 
astery; and  when  Maurice  was  admitted,  before 
the  bell  ceased  clanging,  his  glimpse  of  the  in- 
terior startled  him  almost  as  much  as  the  ap- 
proach. 

An  instant,  however,  sufficed  to  show  him  that 
it  was  a  servant  who  had  hastened  to  the  door. 

"Where's  Sir  Noel?"  he  said.  "Tell  him  I'm 
here — say  'his  son' !" 

He  strode  inside  as  he  spoke ;  and  then  he  saw, 
in  the  great  wainscoted  hall,  with  its  Gobelins 
tapestries — which  were  strange  to  him — and  its 
antlers,  and  its  helmets,  and  its  breast-plates,  a 
frail,  old  man  in  a  frock-coat,  who  peered  eagerly 
at  his  face. 

"Father!"  cried  Maurice;  and  the  old  man 
came  forward,  with  extended  hand. 

"Philip,"  he  said,  "is  it  Philip?  Well,  well!" 
He  stood  gazing  at  him  wonderingly.  "Philip,  I 
shouldn't  have  known  you!  .  .  .  And  yet — 
y-e-s,  yes,  I  can — I  can  see.  ...  So  Philip  has 
come  back!"  His  tone  changed  to  one  of  quick 
impatience.    "Well,  well,  well,  don't  let  us  stand 


48  THE  WORLDLINGS 

here,  come  into  the  room!  Where's  Cope?  Take 
Mr.  Philip's  things,  Cope — Mr.  Philip's  things!" 

Maurice  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  followed. 
The  table  was  laid  for  dinner,  and  in  the  grate, 
between  two  life-size  marble  figures,  which  his 
mythology  did  not  enable  him  to  identify,  a  fire 
was  roaring.  He  warmed  his  hands  before  he 
spoke. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  again,"  he  said.  'You 
have  changed,  too;  it's  a  long  time  since  I  went 
away." 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"Twenty-three  years,"  he  said.  "A  long  time 
— yes,  a  long  time!  You  wouldn't  have  recog- 
nised me,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  yes,  I  should  have  recognised  you," 
said  Maurice;  "and  how  are  you?  all  right  in  your 
health?" 

"So,  so,"  said  Sir  Noel,  adjusting  his  pince- 
nez,  and  examining  him;  "I — I  am  not  a  young 
man,  you  know ;  but  I  am  all  right  excepting  for 
a  bronchial  cough.  Well,  well,  well,  what  do  you 
stand  for?  Why  don't  you  sit  down?  You  must 
be  hungry,  eh? — dinner'll  be  ready  directly.  I 
expected  you  in  time  for  dinner,  but  if  you  had 
said  what  train  you  had  chosen,  I  would  have 
sent  the  carriage  to  meet  you.  Why  didn't  you 
telegraph  what  train?" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  49 

"I  hadn't  seen  the  time-table  when  I  wired; 
I  wired  you  from  the  docks." 

"So  I  saw,  yes — that  is  another  thing!  why 
the  docks — why  didn't  you  land  at  Plymouth? 
I  remitted  a  hundred  pounds;  surely  a  hundred 
pounds  was  enough?" 

"It  would  have  been  enough  if  I  hadn't  been 
in  difficulties  on  the  Fields.  I  was  in  a  pretty 
tight  corner  there — you  may  have  gathered  that 
from  my  cable?" 

"It  is  astonishing,"  said  the  old  man,  musingly 
— "the  difference  in  you,  I  mean.  Your  voice 
has  grown  so  strong,  and  you  are  so  big.  You 
are  no  longer  a  boy,  Philip — you  are  no  longer 
a  boy!  .  .  .  What  were  you  saying?  Yes,  yes 
— your  cable.  I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  cable. 
I  had  already  written  to  you,  but  my  letter  was 
returned  by  the  post-office." 

"You  had  written  to  me?    Where?" 

"To  the  farm,  the  ostrich  farm;  I  couldn't 
guess  that  you  had  left  it!  I  was  going  to  take 
steps  to  find  you — I  was  about  to  advertise  for 
you — when  your  cable  came." 

"I  see,"  said  Maurice.  "The  farm  turned  out 
badly ;  it  was  a  big  mistake  for  me  to  try  the  busi- 
ness. I  went  into  partnership  with  a  man  who 
pretended  to  know  all  about  it,  but  I  don't  think 
he  knew  much  more  than  I  did  at  the  start;  he 


50  THE  WORLDLINGS 

bought  his  experience  with  my  money.  Then  I 
went  up  to  the  Fields.  I  didn't  write  to  you  when 
I  gave  the  farm  up  because  I  didn't  think  you 
wanted  any  correspondence — you  didn't  answer 
the  first  letter,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Sir  Noel,  "you  are  quite  wrong. 
I  did  answer  your  letter;  I  was  very  glad  to  re- 
ceive it — it  gave  me  great  pleasure.  You  didn't 
get  my  answer?" 

"No,  indeed  I  never  got  it!  it  went  astray  then. 
Your  second  letter,  of  course,  arrived  after  I  had 
gone,  but  I  ought  to  have  had  the  first.  I've 
never  had  a  line  from  you,  till  this  note  with  the 
draft,  since  I  left  England." 

The  old  man  tapped  his  fingers  on  the  arm  of 
the  chair.  "I  had  hoped  that  you  would  write 
to  me  from  Melbourne,"  he  said  slowly,  "when 
I  was  obliged  to  discontinue  your  allowance.  It 
was  not  my  fault.  It  was  explained  to  you  that 
I  could  not  help  it.  You  knew  that  the  Bar  was 
never  a  large  income  to  me,  and  there  was  no 
prospect  of  my  succession  for  me  to  raise  money 
on.  When  my  dividends  ceased,  I  was  in  great 
trouble — very  great  trouble — for  a  long  while. 
I  hoped  that  I  should  hear  from  my  son  to  say 
— to  say  that  he  was  sorry." 

"I  wish  you  had!"  said  Maurice,  sincerely. 
"Well,  I  was  younger  then,  and  bitterer;  that's 


THE  WORLDLINGS  51 

the  only  excuse  I've  got.  I've  had  some  tolerably 
rough  lessons  since — if  it's  any  satisfaction  to  you 
to  know  it!" 

"You  have  been  poor,  you  have  had  a  hard 
time — and  it  may  have  done  you  no  harm.  But 
while  you  have  been  away,  there  has  been  noth- 
ing— nothing  else,  Philip?" 

"I've  only  done  one  disgraceful  thing  in  my 
life,"  said  Maurice;  "that  I  can  swear!" 

The  Baronet  sighed.  "There  was  more  than 
the  one,"  he  said,  "but  I  know  what  you  mean. 
Well,  what  is  past  is  past.  After  all  you  were 
not  twenty !  Many  men  have  turned  over  a  new 
leaf  later  and  made  a  career  for  themselves.  You 
have  not  made  a  career,  but  if  you  have  changed 
yours  ways,  you  have  done  enough.  I — I  am 
glad  to  believe  you  did  not  get  my  answer  to 
your  letter ;  it  distressed  me  very  much  that,  after 
I  had  replied,  the  years  should  pass  without  your 
writing  again." 

The  soup  was  brought  in,  and  they  took  their 
seats  at  the  table.  The  butler  was  the  only  ser- 
vant in  attendance,  but  for  the  first  time  since 
he  was  a  lad,  Maurice  knew  a  well-served  dinner. 
The  surroundings,  however,  were  too  impressive 
to  be  desirable  to  his  straying  gaze;  the  carved 
and  bracketed  ceiling,  supported  by  strange  ani- 
mals' heads,  the  massiveness  of  the  furniture,  and 


52  THE  WORLDLINGS 

the  huge,  dark  portraits  on  the  walls  were  awe- 
some to  him.  Once,  as  the  warmth  of  Burgundy- 
ran  through  his  veins,  a  half-smile  curved  his 
mouth;  he  was  picturing  Hosa  Fleming  dining 
in  the  coffee-room  at  Bloomsbury.  He  must 
telegraph  to  her  guardedly  in  the  morning!  Poor 
woman,  she  was  doubtless  counting  the  minutes 
until  she  heard  his  news. 

When  thev  rose,  he  was  relieved  to  be  led  to 
Sir  Noel's  room,  where  he  found  morocco  arm- 
chairs and  cigars. 

"I  haven't  congratuated  you,"  he  said;  "I  sup- 
pose I  may  use  the  word  'congratulate'  ?  It  seems 
very  queer  when  I  look  back,  and  remember 
where  I  saw  you  last!" 

'Yes,"  said  Sir  Noel,  "it's  wonderful — very 
wonderful — that  it  should  come  to  me.  It  is 
something  to  be  proud  of,  one  of  the  oldest 
baronetcies  in  England,  eh?  And  yet  it  has  come 
rather  late  for  me  to  appreciate  it  fully  for  my- 
self. If — if  your  mother  had  lived,  how  happy 
she  would  have  been  to-day !  I  have  often  thought 
of  her  since  I  have  been  here  and  wished  that  she 
could  see  it  with  me."  His  head  drooped  pen- 
sively. "I  used  to  be  rather  glad  that  she  was 
dead!" 

"I  suppose,"  said  Maurice,  "you  mean  that 
you  were  glad  because  of  me?" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  53 

"Ah,  I  should  not  have  said  that,  I — I'm  sorry! 
You  must  forgive  me.  Well,  well,  well,  we  were 
talking  of  other  things!  There  are  over  a  hun- 
dred farms,  and  the  park  is  at  least  five  hundred 
acres;  and  the  place  is  grand — you  have  no  idea 
yet.  There  is  the  room  where  Charles  II.  slept 
before  he  fled,  and — and  the  pictures  are  very 
fine — Vandykes,  Teniers,  you  will  see!  Then 
there  are  very  charming  people;  I  cannot  visit 
much,  though  I  have  driven  over  to  them  once  or 
twice  when  it  has  been  mild,  but  they  make  al- 
lowance for  my  age.  Whichcote — Lady  Wrens- 
fordsley's  place — is  close;  Lady  Helen,  her 
daughter,  is  one  of  the  loveliest  girls  you  have 
ever  seen.  And  Provand  has  a  house  here — his 
family  are  down  here  now — and  there  are  the 
Saviles.  Provand  and  I  were  called  at  the  same 
time.  I  remember  when  the  dinners  were  a  great 
attraction  to  him,  because  of  their  cheapness,  but 
now  he  has  made  a  big  practice,  and  has  taken 
silk.  I  wish  you  had  gone  to  the  Bar,  or  had 
been  a  Varsity  man !  When  people  ask  what  you 
have  done  abroad Well,  well,  you  have  trav- 
elled; you  never  met  anybody,  that  is  all!  I  re- 
member when  you  were  a  little  boy,  and  we  stayed 
at — at — where  did  we  stay? — when  we  stayed  at 
some  watering-place,  you  took  riding-lessons  for 
a  few  weeks,  but  I  could  not  afford  them  for  you 


54  THE  WORLDLINGS 

again,  and  of  course  you  forgot  all  you  had 
learned.  They  ride  to  hounds,  you  know;  you 
mustn't  be  out  of  it,  you  mustn't  be  out  of  it, 
you  must  hunt,  and  shoot,  and  do  everything! 
The  place  will  come  to  you;  my  son  must  play 
his  part,  and — and  be  admired." 

"I  am  afraid  I  shan't  distinguish  myself  as  a 
shot;  I  had  a  gun  in  my  hands  in  Kimberley  for 
the  first  time  for  years,  and  then  there  wasn't 
any  occasion  to  fire.  But  I  can  ride  a  bit;  I  was 
in  the  North-West  Police  once." 

"The  Police?" 
'Canadian  Mounted,'  you  know — it  sounds 
rather  well  if  vou  roll  it  out!"  said  Maurice, 
coolly-  Nevertheless  he  was  a  trifle  sorry  that 
he  had  let  the  fact  slip;  it  was  inadvisable  to 
be  precise.  lie  wished  that  the  real  man's  bio- 
graphical details  had  been  less  disreputable.  "I've 
been  a  good  many  things,"  he  continued:  "I've 
had  to  live  and  to  put  my  pride  in  my  pocket; 
and  it  has  often  been  all  I  had  there.  In  New 
York  I  was  a  reporter  for  six  weeks.  I  was  a 
flat  failure  as  a  reporter.  I  only  had  one  assign- 
ment— and  that  settled  me!" 

'Assignment'?"  said  Sir  Noel  vaguely;  "I 
don't  understand.    Tell  me;  I  am  interested." 

"  'Assignments'  are  the  daily  jobs.  I  was  sup- 
posed to  be  reporting  for  a  News  Agency.     I 


THE  WORLDLINGS  55 

used  to  go  down  town  every  morning  and  open 
a  little  locker  to  see  what  mission  had  been  en- 
trusted to  me,  but  the  locker  was  always  empty. 
I  was  a  novice,  you  see,  and  the  experienced 
hands  got  all  the  work.  Then  I  went  back  to 
my  room,  with  a  book  from  a  free  library,  and. 
read ;  there  wasn't  anything  else  to  do.  A  fellow 
had  told  me  I  might  earn  thirty-five  dollars  a 
week  at  the  business,  but  I  didn't  earn  a  cent. 
It  was  rather  hard  lines,  because  the  time  came 

when Well,  it  was  rather  hard  lines!    One 

morning  I  did  find  a  slip  of  paper  in  my  locker. 
I  was  instructed  to  interview  a  girl  who  had  just 
lost  her  mother.  The  address  was  in  Brooklyn, 
and  it  was  a  terrifically  hot  day.  I  was  pretty 
tired  when  I  got  there ;  and  I  had  to  pay  my  own 
fare,  too!  I  had  to  put  all  sorts  of  questions  to 
her,  you  know — how  old  the  corpse  was,  and 
where  it  was  to  be  buried,  and  what  time  the 
funeral  started;  and  then  I  reckoned  to  write  at 
least  six  lines  of  description  of  the  'floral  offer- 
ings'— the  reporters  always  called  the  wreaths 
'floral  offerings' — and  six  lines,  when  you  were 
to  be  paid  on  the  string,  meant  food." 

"It  meant  food!"  murmured  Sir  Noel.  "Yes, 
well?" 

"Well,  as  I  say,  I  was  a  failure.  The  girl  came 
down  to  me  looking  rather  like  death  herself ;  her 


56  THE  WORLDLINGS 

eyes  were  awful  to  see,  and  when  she  asked  me 
what  it  was  I  wanted  to  hear,  her  voice  wobbled. 
So  I  just  said  that  there  wasn't  anything  at  all 
and  that  I  was  immensely  sorry  to  have  bothered 
her.  Of  course  I  had  to  explain  to  the  manager 
why  I  hadn't  a  report  when  I  got  back;  and  after 
he  had  had  a  fit,  I  was  fired." 

"Tired'?" 

"Sacked.  'Fired'  is  American,  but  the  process 
is  just  as  prompt.  I  was  a  clerk  in  a  collateral 
bank  next — you  would  have  called  it  a  pawn- 
broker's— but  I  only  stayed  there  a  fortnight, 
and  left  with  a  V  as  capital,  while  I  looked  round 
again;  a  'V  means  five  dollars.  Oh,  yes,  I  think 
I've  been  everything,  except  a  success,  but — er — 
I  got  a  few  hundred  pounds  together  as  the  years 
went  on,  or  I  couldn't  have  gone  into  the  ostrich 
farm.    I  should  like  another  cigar!" 

Whisky  and  potash-water  had  been  brought 
into  the  room,  and  he  took  a  long  draught  from 
his  glass,  and  lit  a  cedar-spill  with  appreciative 
deliberation.  After  Cape  lucifers,  cedar-spills 
were  good  to  use. 

"And  in  Kimberley?"  said  Sir  Noel;  "when 
you  had  lost  your  money,  what  did  you  do  there? 
•You  said  that  the  last  time  you  held  a  gun  was 
in  Kimberley." 

"Oh,  that  was  during  the  Kama  Company's 


THE  WORLDLINGS  57 

row,  before  I  found  an  overseer's  berth.  The 
men  were  on  strike,  and  they  had  sworn  to  de- 
stroy the  gear.  The  Company  offered  a  pound 
a  day  to  fellows  to  come  up  and  defend  it,  and 
those  who  were  broke,  went.  The  rifles  were  pro- 
vided— and  not  much  else.  Nobody  saw  soap  for 
a  week.  We  slept  on  the  ground,  of  course,  and 
there  were  no  plates,  or  forks,  or  other  luxuries. 
When  the  meat  was  done  enough,  it  was  hooked 
out  of  the  cauldron  with  a  pickaxe,  and  we  ate  it 
in  our  fingers.  It  was  a  very  dirty  time,  but  not 
in  the  least  dangerous.  We  patrolled  in  turns  at 
night,  and  once  there  was  a  cry  of,  'All  fires  out 
— every  man  to  his  post!'  but  nothing  happened. 
Everyone  felt  very  foolish,  I  think.  At  the  end 
of  the  week  I  went  home  and  washed.  And  then 
I  collected  six  pounds,  and  had  a  dinner.  I  did 
enjoy  that  beer — a  bottle  of  beer  costs  three-and- 
sixpence  on  the  Fields,  but  it  was  worth  the 
money." 

Sir  Noel  coughed,  and  leant  his  head  on  his 
hand.  "I  do  not  recognise  you,"  he  said  at  last, 
"you  have  come  back  so. different.  But  you  have 
improved.  I  like  your  tone ;  it  is — manly — your 
tone  suits  you,  Philip.  I  am  glad  you  have  come 
back!" 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  Maurice  re- 
turned.   "I've  been  knocked  into  shape  since  the 


58  THE  WORLDLINGS 

days  you're  thinking  about.  Experience  is  a  bet- 
ter tutor  than  Benson,  you  know!  .  .  .  Don't 
you  remember  Benson? — after  the  affair  at  the 
Bedford  school.  What  an  outsider  the  fellow 
was,  now  I  look  back  at  him!" 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Noel,  "I  remember  now.  I 
trusted  him,  and  he  deceived  me." 

Maurice  frowned  involuntarily.  "And  though 
I've  had  a  rough  time,  I  daresay  I  shall  be  able 
to  shake  down  all  right,  with  a  little  practice," 
he  went  on.  "I  shan't  be  any  good  at  a  dance 
as  long  as  I  live,  I'm  afraid,  but  I  shall  pick  up 
the  rest." 

"You  want  clothes,"  said  Sir  Xoel,  "you  must 
have  clothes  at  once;  in  the  meantime  you  are  im- 
possible. We  will  telegraph  to  a  tailor  in  the 
morning  to  send  a  man  down.  Well,  well,  well, 
tell  me  more!  Go  on,  talk  to  me;  I  like  to  hear 
you  talk.  Take  another  drink — vou  are  verv 
abstemious!  At  my  age  it  is  necessary,  but  you 
are  a  young  man." 

They  sat  together  until  eleven,  and  then  Sir 
Noel  retired.  "You  won't  mind  if  I  leave  you?" 
he  inquired;  "I  am  obliged  to  keep  early  hours 
now." 

Maurice  opened  the  door  for  him,  and  turned 
slowly,  and  lit  a  third  cigar. 

Wrhen  it  was  smoked  to  the  end  he  rang  the 


THE  WORLDLINGS  59 

bell,  and  Cope  showed  him  the  way  to  his  bed- 
room. He  sat  gazing  at  his  room,  and  thinking 
again,  for  a  long  while  before  he  undressed.  Once 
or  twice  he  shook  his  mind  free  of  his  thoughts, 
and  crossed  the  floor  curiously  to  examine  some- 
thing. He  drew  the  curtains  aside,  and  looked 
over  the  park,  solemn  under  a  watery  moon.  Was 
it  all  real?  Had  this  thing  happened  in  his  life? 
And  clothes,  clothes  fashionable,  with  piles  of 
shirts,  and  a  row  of  boots,  were  to  be  his  as  soon 
as  West  End  tradesmen  could  make  them  for 
him! 

The  thought  of  the  row  of  boots  recurred  in 
his  meditations  after  he  was  in  bed,  and  was  the 
last  vague  fancy  that  flitted  across  his  mind  be- 
fore he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Sir  Noel  seldom  descended  before  noon,  and 
when  Maurice  had  learnt  the  fact  and  break- 
fasted next  morning,  he  went  out.  Oakenhurst 
looked  less  desolate  by  daylight;  indeed,  he  could 
easily  conceive  that  in  summer  it  was  very  pretty. 
Having  walked  into  the  village,  he  inquired  the 
way  to  the  telegraph  office,  and  there  despatched 
his  message  to  Rosa.  He  telegraphed:  "Found 
my  father  feeble,  but  otherwise  all  right.  No 
cause  for  anxiety. — Philip." 

After  luncheon  the  Baronet  wished  to  conduct 
him  through  the  house,  but  the  role  of  guide 
speedily  fatigued  the  old  man,  and  the  house- 
keeper was  deputed  to  take  his  place.  When 
Maurice  rejoined  him,  he  was  sitting  by  the  fire 
in  his  room,  with  The  Times  on  his  knees,  polish- 
ing his  pince-nez  with  his  handkerchief.  He 
looked  up  eagerly. 

"Well?"  he  exclaimed.    "Well,  what,  eh?" 

"I  never  imagined  such  a  place,"  said  Maurice. 
"I  can't  say  any  more,  but  I  feel  the  greatness 
of  it  right  in  my  heart." 

60 


THE  WORLDLINGS  61 

The  puckered  face  brightened  with  pleasure. 
"Everybody  says  so.  There  is  nothing  like  it 
here;  Whichcote  is  quite  modern  in  comparison 
— you  will  see  when  they  come  back;  they  are 
in  Algiers  now.  I  am  sorry  I  couldn't  remain 
with  you,  but  I  soon  get  tired.  At  seventy-six 
we  are  not  energetic — and  our  sight  is  not  so 
strong  as  it  used  to  be  either!"  he  added,  striking 
the  newspaper  testily. 

"You  oughtn't  to  strain  your  sight ;  would  you 
care  for  me  to — to  read  that  to  vou  for  a  little 
while?" 

Sir  Noel  peered  at  him  with  what  seemed  to 
be  a  shade  of  incredulity. 

"Would  you  really  do  it?"  he  said.  "Are  you 
sure  it  wouldn't  bore  vou  ?  I  am  not  so  old  that 
I've  forgotten  that  the  elderly  soon  become  try- 
ing; and  you — you  have  no  need  to  pay  me  at- 
tentions, you  know." 

"I'm  the  most  selfish  man  that  ever  lived," 
said  Maurice;  "if  it  went  against  the  grain,  I'm 
afraid  I  shouldn't  make  the  offer." 

But  after  the  reading  had  continued  for  half 
an  hour,  Sir  Xoel  declared  that  there  was  no 
more  he  wished  to  hear,  and  presently  he  dozed. 
When  his  eyes  opened,  they  dwelt  on  Maurice 
with  satisfaction,  and  the  white  head  nodded 
slowly.    Then  the  Baronet  and  the  impostor  con- 


62  THE  WORLDLINGS 

versed  again,  and  the  evening  passed  much  as  the 
one  before. 

The  following  afternoon  Maurice  went  up  to 
town.  He  had  an  open  cheque  for  a  hundred 
pounds  in  his  note-book,  and  from  Waterloo  he 
drove  to  the  hotel  in  Bloomsbury. 

Mrs.  Fleming  was  in  the  drawing-room,  he 
heard,  and  he  entered  unannounced.  A  middle- 
aged  person  whose  countenance  proclaimed  her 
spinsterhood  was  stitching  red  flannel  by  the 
window,  and  in  a  green  rep  armchair,  with  a 
crochet  antimacassar,  a  curate  was  reading  The 
Christian  World.  Rosa  sprang  to  her  feet,  with 
a  dozen  interrogatories  in  her  gaze. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do?"  she  said,  in  considera- 
tion of  the  spinster  and  the  curate. 

"Extremely  well,  thanks!"  replied  Maurice, 
considering  all  three.  "Shall  we  go  out?"  he 
suggested  in  a  lower  voice;  "I  want  to  get  to 
the  bank  before  four,  and  we  can  talk.  I'll  wait 
for  you  while  you  put  your  things  on." 

She  did  not  keep  him  waiting  long,  and  they 
strolled  into  New  Oxford  Street  before  they 
hailed  a  cab. 

"And  it  is  really  all  right?"  she  inquired;  "you 
don't  think  he  is  suspicious,  you  don't  think  he's 
watching  you?" 

"No,"  said  the  man,  "I  am  quite  sure  he  isn't." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  63 

"I  scarcely  dared  to  hope  you  would  get  any 
money  from  him  so  soon.  Was  it  difficult  to 
work?" 

"No,"  he  said  again;  "I  didn't  work  it  at  all 
— he  gave  me  the  money.  I  meant  to  ask  for 
some  in  time  enough  for  you,  but,  as  it  happens, 
I  can  only  claim  credit  for  the  intention.  In 
point  of  fact,  he  doesn't  answer  to  your  descrip- 
tion a  bit;  he  isn't  vindictive,  and  he  isn't  hard, 
and  he  isn't  mean." 

"Really?"  she  said.  "I  suppose  he  has 
changed." 

"He  must  have  changed  a  great  deal,  if  his  son 
read  him  rightly.    Well,  how  have  you  been?" 

"How  have  I  been?"  she  cried — "didn't  you 
see  the  place?  I'd  rather  be  alone  in  Lennox 
Street  than  have  those  ghastly  people  over  me 
all  day.  And  it  has  rained  all  the  time ;  I  haven't 
been  outside  the  door  till  now!  When  do  you 
think  I  can  move?" 

"You  can  move  whenever  you  like;  there's 
nothing  to  prevent  you — I  daresay  I  shall  be  able 
to  bring  you  some  more  before  your  share  of 
this  has  gone." 

"Twenty-five  pounds  won't  last  very  long," 
she  said.  "I  can't  move  as  I  am — I  haven't  a 
rag  to  my  back." 

"You're  going  to  have  fifty.    You  see,  I  get 


64  THE  WORLDLINGS 

an  outfit  besides.  I  can't  give  you  your  share  of 
what  it  costs,  so  the  least  you're  entitled  to  is  half 
this  hundred.  I'm  not  sure  that  even  that  is 
fair?" 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said;  "thanks!  Fifty  is  quite 
fair — fifty  will  do  a  lot.  .  .  .  Well,  what's  it  like 
— what's  the  place  like  ?  You  seem  to  take  it  all 
very  calmly.  We  have  succeeded.  Aren't  you 
crazy  with  delight?  haven't  you  got  anything  to 
say? 

"The  place  makes  the  past  seem  very  real  to 
you,  and  you  feel  very  humble  in  it,"  said  Maur- 
ice; "I  should  think  anyone  would  feel  very 
humble  in  it.  My  bedroom  overlooks  the  park; 
the  park  is  five  hundred  acres.  There  are  over  a 
hundred  farms.  The  old  man  likes  me.  What 
else  am  I  to  tell  you?" 

They  had  reached  the  bank,  and  he  took  her  in 
with  him,  and  gave  her  ten  of  the  five-pound 
notes  when  they  had  re-entered  the  hansom. 

"I  have  to  go  to  a  hatter's,  and  to  the  tailor's 
to  try  some  suits  on,"  he  said.  "If  you  don't 
mind  waiting  in  the  cab  for  me,  we'll  have  a  swell 
dinner  somewhere  before  I  go  back." 

She  clutched  his  arm.  "But  won't  they  stare 
at  us  like  this?  Everybody  will  be  in  evening- 
dress." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  65 

"Oh,  not  everybody!  Besides,  if  you'd  prefer, 
it,  we  can  choose  a  quiet  place." 

"No,"  she  said,  "no!  I'd  like  to  be  in  the  gas- 
light, among  people  again.  Where  shall  we 
go?" 

"You  aren't  in  good  hands,  but  we'll  go  to  the 
best  place  we  can  think  of — or  the  best  place 
where  our  clothes  will  pass.  By  the  way,  I've 
often  meant  to  ask  you,  did — did  Jardine  speak 
French,  or  anything  but  English?" 

"He  knew  a  little  French,  but  he  couldn't 
speak  it,"  she  answered. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Maurice.  "Everybody 
'knows'  a  little  French;  we  have  all  been  to 
school." 

After  the  tailor's  had  been  visited  they  had 
some  lukewarm  coffee  in  two  tiny  cups,  at  a 
confectioner's  in  Bond  Street,  for  a  shilling  a 
cup ;  and  then  they  looked  at  the  shop  windows, 
and  sauntered  into  Regent  Street,  where  they 
looked  at  the  shops  too.  It  amused  Maurice  to 
note  the  furs  of  the  winter  and  the  flowers  of  the 
summer  such  near  neighbours,  and  he  wondered 
in  which  branches  of  art  the  young  men  were 
celebrated  who  scowled  so  intellectually  in  their 
photographs — not  understanding  that  they  were 
celebrities'  sons.  He  bought  a  hat  for  her  that 
she  stopped  to  admire — or,  more  accurately,  he 


66  THE  WORLDLINGS 

bought  a  dearer  one  that  they  saw  inside,  for  the 
"young  lady"  who  attended  to  them  insisted  that 
the  hat  from  the  window  was  ''rather  matronly 
for  you,  moddam." 

A  stranger  inclined  to  speculate  about  them 
would  have  been  puzzled  to  determine  what  tie 
existed;  they  were  not  attracted  by  each  other 
certainly — the  absence  of  the  sexual  magic  in 
their  relation  was  obvious  on  both  sides;  they 
weren't  brother  and  sister — the  facial  character- 
istics were  too  dissimilar;  they  weren't  husband 
and  wife — a  quick  ear  could  detect  that  in  their 
tones.  But  the  "big  Colonial"  who  looked  at  her 
so  carelessly  was  paying  for  the  handsome  wom- 
an's hat,  and  then  they  went  away  together  to 
dine. 

Xow  Maurice  was  irritated  by  his  own  per- 
plexity, though  he  would  not  suffer  his  demean- 
our to  betray  him.  He  would  have  liked  to  order 
the  dinner  with  the  utmost  judgment,  to  select 
the  wines  with  scrupulous  taste.  He  was  aware, 
by  hearsay,  that  one  may  pay  for  the  elaboration 
with  winch  the  waiter  fiddles  with  the  glass, 
rather  than  for  what  the  bottle  contains,  and  that 
the  pre-eminence  of  a  vintage  in  a  restaurant 
occasionally  lies  in  the  gravity  with  which  he  lifts 
the  cradle.  It  annoyed  Maurice  to  feel  unso- 
phisticated in  the  ornate  room  where  women's 


THE  WORLDLINGS  67 

necks  gleamed  so  whitely  and  dining  had  evi- 
dently tbeen  elevated  to  the  plane  of  an  art. 
When  a  man's  choice  of  hors  d'oeuvres  is  "na- 
tives," however,  he  strikes  the»keynote  to  his  in- 
tentions, and,  if  the  waiter  to  whom  he  has 
drifted  is  intelligent,  all  may  easily  go  well. 
Maurice  accepted  several  recommendations  with 
regard  to  the  menu,  but  sought  guidance  with  the 
air  of  one  whom  it  is  unwise  to  deceive.  Rosa 
preferred  hock  and  champagne,  and,  resigning 
himself  to  order  blindly  Schloss  Johannisberg 
'62,  and  Perrier  Jouet  '74,  his  deliberation  as  he 
spoke  the  numbers  suggested  that  a  wine-list  held 
no  secrets  from  him.  The  waiter's  conjectures 
about  the  stranger  who  carried  himself  with  such 
assurance  in  a  pea-jacket  and  commanded  the 
dinner  of  a  wealthy  man,  mounted  rapidly;  and 
when  the  peaches, were  pronounced  flavourless, 
he  staked  his  all  and  did  that  which  Maurice  was 
far  from  appreciating  as  it  deserved — he  sug- 
gested pousse-cafes. 

They  were  so  pretty  that  Rosa  said  it  was  a 
shame  to  disturb  them,  but  it  was  past  eight 
o'clock,  and  Maurice  wanted  to  catch  the  quick 
train.  Nevertheless  when  he  had  put  her  into  a 
cab,  he  did  not  call  another  for  himself  immedi- 
ately. For  the  first  time  he  stood  on  the  pave- 
ments of  the  West  End  independent,  and  his 


68  THE  WORLDLINGS 

fancy  hummed  with  the  knowledge.  His  mind 
reverted  to  the  women  whom  he  had  watched  in- 
side, as  they  murmured,  and  dined,  and  lifted 
their  lashes  and  smiled — the  women  among  the 
English  parties,  in  their  fashionable  toilettes. 
What  did  the  young  men  who  placed  the  cloaks 
about  their  delicate  shoulders  so  composedly  say 
to  interest  them?  Would  he  know  what  to  say? 
he  feared  not.  Yet  he  wished  himself  for  a  few 
hours  in  the  position  of  the  men. 

The  thought  of  the  silent  house  in  Surrey 
jarred  on  his  mood.  How  graceful  that  woman 
had  been  who  looked  back  and  nodded  to  the 
people  in  the  far  corner  as  she  left !  How  charm- 
ing the  movement!  such  a  quick  careless  turn,  and 
yet  expressing  everything  so  perfectly:  "Well, 
we  shall  see  you  afterwards.  Au  revoir — I  know 
it's  going  to  be  very  pleasant;  I  hope  you  won't 
be  bored  yourselves !"  How  exquisitely  her  frock 
became  her,  and  how  perfect  were  her  neck  and 
throat! 

The  pale  curve  of  Regent  Street  gleamed  en- 
ticingly. Pie  wanted  to  hear  a  woman's  voice  in 
a  song  of  sentiment — or  to  see  a  ballet — or  to  ride 
fast  through  cold  air — anything  but  to  go  to 
Croft  Court.  The  burst  of  brightness  at  the 
Circus  pleased  his  eyes,  and  the  exteriors  of  the 
variety-theatres   shone  with   momentary  allure- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  69 

ment.  But  next,  the  thought  that  he  would  feel 
cooped  if  he  obeyed  his  impulse,  made  him  hesi- 
tate. He  strolled  along  Piccadilly,  undecided 
whether  he  would  go  back  and  enter  one,  or  not. 
Alternately  the  notion  attracted  and  repelled 
him.  His  desires  took  no  definite  form,  but  he 
was  craving  for  excitement,  athirst  to  gulp  at  the 
cup  that  he  had  bought,  here  and  now. 

When  he  looked  at  a  clock,  he  had  only  time 
to  catch  the  last  train  of  all.  He  had  not  imag- 
ined that  it  was  so  late.  He  was  annoyed  with 
himself  and  depressed.  What  he  had  won 
seemed,  in  the  new  melancholy  that  pervaded  him, 
an  empty  possession.  Now  the  thought  of  the 
women  whom  he  had  viewed  in  the  restaurant 
came  back  to  him  heavilv,  but  his  mind  turned 
under  it,  to  think  with  impatience  of  the  men. 
How  soon  would  the  real  life  be  open  to  him — 
the  life  that  he  had  a  right  to  expect?  When 
would  he  snatch  the  key  to  the  inner  London 
where  things  were  at  their  best — where  it  was 
forbidden  to  paint  the  blemish,  to  gild  inferior 
gauds,  or  throw  a  perfume  on  the  nearly  clean? 
He  looked  about  him,  and  for  him  habitude 
had  spun  no  veil.  The  hour  was  late  for  London. 
The  theatres  had  shut  their  doors;  in  the  music- 
halls  the  last  "comedian"  had  made  the  last 
joke"  about  the  last  stale  egg.     It  had  struck 


<<: 


70  THE  WORLDLINGS 

eleven,  and  the  amusements  of  the  nation  were 
suspended.  Glum-eyed  people  traversed  the 
dark  town  drearily,  the  black  figures  moving  on 
the  greyness  like  automata.  Through  the  gloom 
of  Regent  Street  the  fusty  busses  rumbled  to  the 
suburbs,  the  glimmer  of  their  mediaeval  oil-lamps 
tinging  the  melancholy  faces  of  the  Londoners 
who  went  home  because  they  had  nowhere  else 
to  go.  For  the  multitude  no  choice  remained  but 
liquor,  or  bed.  Depression  pervaded  the  cant- 
ridden,  unlighted  capital  like  a  fog;  the  windows 
of  the  publicans  made  the  only  cheer  in  the  city 
of  the  Pharisees.  On  the  pavements  of  Piccadil- 
ly he  saw  self-respecting  citizens  degraded  by  the 
shamelessness  of  the  legislative  mind;  and  kne 
that  when  an  attempt  was  made  to  refine  matters. 
it  was  severely  punished.  Counsel — with  the 
tongue  in  the  cheek — referred  to  the  improvement 
in  terms  of  cloistral  contempt;  the  magistrate — 
quantum  mat  at  us  at)  ilia — was  officially  appalled 
to  learn  that  such  iniquity  had  thriven;  para- 
graphists — grinning  as  they  wrote — proclaimed 
the  need  for  "suppressing  these  offences  with  a 
strong  hand."  It  Was  the  triumph  of  topsy-tur- 
vydom — the  apotheosis  of  pretence;  the  reformer 
was  imprisoned,  and  the  legislative  immorality 
was  content.  As  he  looked,  the  great  sombre  city 
seemed  to  him  an  incarnate  nightmare.    .    .    . 


THE  WORLDLINGS  71 

Then  from  the  serried  sidewalk  there  rose  a 
strange  sound,  a  sound  that  for  a  moment  light- 
ened his  oppression — the  sound  of  a  single  laugh. 
Something  in  his  breast  vibrated,  and  he  was 
startled  by  the  knowledge  that  it  was  the  first 
laugh  he  had  heard  in  the  London  streets. 

When  he  reached  home,  Sir  Noel  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  Maurice  was  glad  to  seek  his  own.  On 
the  morrow  the  sun  shone,  and  after  they  had 
sauntered  a  while  on  the  terrace,  he  repeated  his 
offices  of  the  last  two  days.  It  became  his  custom 
to  read  to  the  old  man  for  half  an  hour  or  so 
each  morning ;  and  so  unvarying  was  the  routine 
of  the  house,  that  when  a  week  had  passed  since 
the  night  of  his  arrival,  it  was  strange  to  him  to 
reflect  that  he  had  been  here  no  longer. 

A  dinner-party  was  given  at  the  Court  shortly 
afterwards,  and  Sir  Noel  nodded  approval  to 
himself  when  Maurice  appeared.  Maurice  indeed 
looked  a  fine  fellow  with  his  close-cropped  beard, 
and  the  air  of  distinction  that  the  right  tailor  can 
confer  on  the  right  man.  His  eyes  were  quick; 
he  had  learnt  at  the  restaurant  that  the  most  de- 
sirable fastening  for  the  single  stud-hole  that  he 
found  in  his  shirt-fronts  was  a  small  pearl — and 
had  bought  one,  declining  the  more  expensive  or- 
naments that  resembled  miniature  brooches.  He 
had  observed  that  the  best-dressed  men  there 


72  THE  WORLDLINGS 

eschewed  watch-chains  in  the  evening — and  this 
fashion  had  been  the  easier  for  him  to  obey  since 
he  did  not  possess  a  watch-chain  yet.  Little  would 
ever  be  lost  on  him:  if  it  had  already  been  the 
custom  among  the  "best  people"  to  banish  their 
arms  from  their  stationery,  the  tyro  would  have 
been  among  the  first  to  write  on  paper  that  was 
stamped  only  with  the  address;  but  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  was  apt  did  not  lessen  the  fact  that 
he  was  nervous. 

He  strove  to  encourage  himself  by  remember- 
ing that  he  had  lived  among  gentlepeople  until  he 
was  nearly  seventeen.  But  it  was  a  long  time 
ago ;  and  he  had  never  met  county  people,  never 
met  titled  people,  and,  although  it  might  be  ridic- 
ulous, he  could  not  avoid  the  misgiving  that  peo- 
ple, with  handles  to  their  names,  must  present 
other  difficulties  than  that  of  not  knowing  what 
to  call  them.  To  storm  Croft  Court  and  an  old 
man  who  was  awaiting  his  son  had  merely  re- 
quired superlative  courage,  but  the  ordeal  before 
him  demanded  something  over  and  above  the  con- 
trol of  his  nerves — it  demanded  experience. 
Though  the  circumstances  had  enabled  him  to  ask 
Sir  Noel  for  information  on  the  points  of  which 
he  knew  in  advance  that  he  was  ignorant,  he  was 
haunted  by  the  dread  of  critical  moments  im- 
possible to  foresee. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  73 

Lady  Wrensfordsley,  and  Lady  Helen  Cleeve 
were  still  in  Algiers,  and  Provand,  of  whom  Sir 
Noel  had  spoken,  had  not  returned  to  Oakenhurst 
since  the  beginning  of  the  Hilary  term.  How- 
ever, Mrs.  and  Miss  Provand  came;  and  there 
were  Sir  Thomas  and  Lady  Savile,  and  most  of 
the  other  people  of  whom  Maurice  had  heard,  in- 
cluding the  Rector  and  his  wife — a  rather  sur- 
prising little  blonde  many  years  his  junior,  who 
confided  to  "Mr.  Jardine"  that  parochial  work 
was  a  "great  responsibility,"  in  a  tone  which  sug- 
gested that  she  meant  a  "great  bore."  To  his 
surprise,  he  found  the  evening  agreeable  after 
half  an  hour,  and  it  was  only  when  the  West  Sur- 
rey hounds  began  to  stream  through  the  conver- 
sation that  he  had  the  impression  of  following  on 
a  lame  mount. 

Yet  he  was  neither  taciturn  nor  tactless;  and 
when  Sir  Thomas  told  him  the  "rabbit-shooting 
was  wonderfully  good,"  and  added:  "But  if 
you're  used  to  big  game,  I  suppose  that  isn't 
much  pull?"  he  contrived  to  remark  that  he  had 
done  very  little  shooting  without  appearing  to 
deprecate  the  fact, 

What  the  Rector  called  "your  enviable  ac- 
quaintance with  foreign  countries"  was  very  use- 
ful to  him  on  his  debut.  Central  Park,  and  Niag- 
ara, or  Adderley  Street,  and  Table  Mountain, 


74  THE  WORLDLINGS 

present  the  same  features  of  interest  to  the  emi- 
grant as  to  the  tourist,  and  it  was  not  necessary 
to  state  that  he  had  admired  the  park  at  a  period 
when  his  only  luncheons  had  been  those  provided 
gratis  with  a  glass  of  beer,  or  that  he  had  first 
beheld  the  mountain  from  a  steerage  deck. 

Lady  Savile  had  consented  to  play  hostess,  but 
her  good-nature  could  not  be  taxed  too  severely, 
and  Sir  Xoel  suggested  the  move  to  the  drawing- 
room  before  long.  Her  cordiality  was  very  grat- 
ifying to  Maurice,  and  he  thought  her  amusing, 
though  she  was  secretly  chagrined  by  the  absence 
of  her  elder  daughter,  who  some  people  main- 
tained was  a  beauty,  but  who  was  eight-and- 
twenty,  and  still  "Miss  Savile."  The  informality 
\  i  th  which  the  lady  hoped  to  "see  a  great  deal  of 
him  in  future"  flattered  him.  He  was  not  aware 
that  Agatha  Savile  and  her  sister  were  returning 
from  a  visit  in  Leicestershire  that  week,  nor1 
would  the  fact  have  had  any  significance  to  him 
had  he  known  it. 

Mrs.  Provand's  manner  was  equally  warm,  and 
Miss  Provand  herself,  though  she  said  little,  was 
so  pretty  that  he  pardoned  her  shyness  for  the 
sake  of  her  eyelashes.  He  felt  exhilarated  by  his 
self-possession;  it  seemed  to  him  that  nothing 
could  be  simpler  than  to  talk  to  women  in  a 
drawing-room.    How  small  a  witticism  provoke:! 


THE  WORLDLINGS  75 

their  laughter!  When  the  "good-nights"  began, 
he  was  sorry  that  the  party  was  finishing ;  he  had 
not  guessed  that  it  would  terminate  so  early,  and 
he  mentally  registered  the  hour  for  his  own  guid- 
ance. People  were  delightful — they  could  not 
have  been  nicer  to  him  if  he  had  met  them  many 
times !  He  was  conscious  that  it  was  not  for  his 
graces,  nor  his  talents,  that  they  made  much  of 
him;  he  understood  that  he  merely  shone  in  the 
reflected  lustre  of  Sir  Xoel;  but  if  he  had  heard 
that  every  woman  present  had  been  contemplat- 
ing him  in  the  light  of  somebody's  husband,  he 
would  have  been  dumfounded.  His  matrimonial 
eligibility — that  the  girl  who  secured  him  would 
be  held  to  make  a  brilliant  alliance — had  not 
crossed  his  mind.  He  did  not  realise  yet  that  he 
might  marry  the  daughter  of  a  duchess  if  he 
would — that  in  the  position  he  occupied  he  was 
popularly  regarded  as  a  match  for  any  woman  in 
England. 


CHAPTER  V 

As  the  novelty  faded — as  custom  dulled  its 
brilliance  and  he  was  enabled  to  see  it  steadily — ■ 
life  at  Oakenhurst  became  galling  to  Maurice. 
If  familiarity  with  gentlewomen  did  not  breed 
contempt,  it  begot  tedium.  Miss  Provand's  eye- 
lashes ;  the  engrossed  gaze  of  Agatha  Savile,  and 
her  trick  of  saying  "Do  you  think  so? — you 
don't?" — a  compliment  to  his  profundity,  not  a 
contradiction — whenever  he  expressed  a  view; 
the  empty  chatter  of  her  sister;  the  allusions  to 
things  he  knew  nothing  about,  all  wearied  him. 

It  was  not  so  easy  after  all  to  sustain  a  conver- 
sation! He  felt  more  foreign  in  the  atmosphere 
now  than  he  had  done  when  he  first  breathed  it; 
yet  it  appeared  to  him  sometimes,  as  the  weeks 
went  by,  that  the  deficiency  lay  in  English  maid- 
enhood rather  than  in  himself.  If,  despite  his 
limitations,  he  could  talk  less  clumsily  to  the  elder 
than  to  the  younger  women,  it  was  because  Eng- 
lish maidenhood,  under  its  becoming  frocks,  was 
distinctly  silly.  Perhaps  he  should  except  Miss 
Savile;  he  was  inclined  to  think  that  with  her  the 
silliness  was  a  pose  and  that  considerable  shrewd- 

76 


THE  WORLDLINGS  77 

ness  lay  behind  her  artless  gaze;  but  he  didn't 
like  her. 

The  dress  of  all  the  girls,  their  speech — fla- 
voured with  the  phrases  of  the  moment — the 
modernity  of  their  manner  had  stimulated  his 
curiosity;  but  they  did  not  hold  his  interest.  Be- 
sides, Sir  Noel  had  awakened  him  to  his  matri- 
monial value — and  he  could  never  marry;  that 
would  be  the  culminating  crime,  to  jeopardise  a 
girl's  future  by  asking  her  to  share  a  position  that 
he  held  by  imposture !  To  what  end  should  he  sip 
tea  in  drawing-rooms  and  yawn  in  spirit,  while 
he  perhaps  encouraged  a  simpleton  to  anticipate 
a  magnificent  income  that  he  could  never  offer? 

No,  it  wasn't  to  flirt  over  a  tea-table  that  he 
had  done  this  thing!  Nor  had  the  pastimes  of  a 
country  gentleman  any  abiding  attraction  for 
him;  he  had  roughed  it  so  often  from  necessity 
that  what  he  wanted  now  was  to  luxuriate. 

He  recalled  the  visions  that  he  had  seen  aboard 
ship.  When  was  he  going  to  realise  them?  That 
was  what  he  had  schemed  for — to  be  his  own 
master  in  cities,  to  play,  and  sup,  and  gather 
some  of  the  "roses  and  raptures"  of  the  world. 
Sir  Thomas  had  offered  to  "put  him  up  at 
Boodle's,"  and  he  had  accepted  the  suggestion 
with  alacrity,  but  even  when  he  should  be  elected, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  his  opportunities  for  learn- 


78  THE  WORLDLINGS 

ingthe  pass-word  to  inner  London — for  discover- 
ing the  Open  Sesame  and  Roses — would  be  few. 
Sir  Noel  had  once  referred  to  the  desirability  of 
his  making  a  public  career,  and  the  proposal  had 
appalled  him.  He  knew  nor  cared  nothing  about 
politics;  he  would  never  be  able  to  open  his  mouth 
in  the  House  if  he  were  there!  There  were  hours 
when  he  tramped  under  the  ancestral  oaks  and 
beeches,  feeling  with  exasperation  that  he  had 
paid  away  his  liberty  as  well  as  his  honour,  and 
had  little  in  return — that  he  was  like  a  child 
mocked  with  an  expensive  present  that  he  mustn't 
touch. 

Then  he  asked  himself  if  he  had  lost  his  senses 
— this  place  would  be  his.  But  when  Sir  Xoel 
died ! — he  didn't  desire  him  to  die — he  liked  him ; 
he  would  have  been  quite  satisfied  that  the  Bar- 
onet should  live  to  be  a  centenarian  if  only  the 
circumstances  had  been  different. 

Rosa  Fleming  was  almost  equally  disappoint- 
ed, and  he  had  begun  to  dread  his  visits  to  her  a 
shade.  She  had  removed  to  an  hotel  in  the  West 
End,  and  had  primarily  viewed  the  world  with 
smiling  eyes;  but  the  world,  after  all,  never  smiled 
back  to  her.  She  was  alone,  and  her  resources 
were  precarious.  She  did  not  mistrust  Maurice 
— he  appeared,  as  she  had  exclaimed  once  or 
twice,  to  be  "playing  very  fair"  with  her — and 


THE  WORLDLINGS  79 

common  sense  told  her  that  no  writing  between 
them  would  in  any  way  strengthen  her  hand; 
yet,  whether  it  was  his  fault  or  not,  her  situation 
lacked  a  good  deal.  Where  were  the  social  ad- 
vantages that  had  been  promised? 

At  first  the  glitter  of  the  table  d'hote,  to  go 
everywhere  in  hansoms,  and  the  consciousness 
that  whether  she  bought  her  gloves  in  Holborn, 
or  the  Burlington  Arcade,  somebody  else  would 
pay  the  price,  had  all  been  exciting ;  but  such  ex- 
citement soon  wore  out.  She  had  known  such 
things  before.  The  charm,  to  the  woman,  was 
not  even  that  of  a  brilliant  novelty,  but  only  of  a 
brilliant  revival;  and  she  was  reminded  in  how 
much  gayer  surroundings  she  had  spent  money 
last.  To  be  sure,  there  were  the  comic  operas  and 
the  variety-theatres — she  sat  in  the  hall,  envious- 
ly watching  the  people  filter  out  after  dinner 
sometimes — but  to  be  seen  about  London  bv  her- 
self  at  night  would  be  indiscreet.  Her  mind  was 
set  on  big  stakes ;  she  wanted  a  footing  in  society, 
all  that  Jardine  would  have  given  to  her  had  he 
lived;  she  must  be  careful  of  her  reputation! 

It  was  impossible  that  through  her  brain  should 
never  flit  the  perception  that  all  that  Jardine 
could  have  given  to  her,  the  man  who  was  per- 
sonating him  could  give ;  and  for  this  reason,  al- 
though she  trusted  Maurice,  her  feeling  for  him 


80  THE  WORLDLINGS 

was  one  of  respect,  and  not  of  liking.  "Respect," 
though  it  sounds  a  curious  term  in  the  connection, 
was  the  only  favourable  sentiment  that  he  now 
inspired  in  her.  She  might  have  married  him — 
and  he  looked  at  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  man! 
He  knew  too  much  about  her,  she  had  "given 
herself  away"  to  him!  and  she  was  chagrined  to 
feel  it.  It  was  true  that  the  first  rich  man  she 
met  would  probably  appeal  to  her  more,  but  their 
interests  were  one ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  would 
take  a  wise  step  in  making  her  his  wife ;  and  she, 
moreover,  was  unlikely  ever  to  meet  any  other 
man  who  could  provide  her  with  so  much.  It 
irritated  her  that  she,  for  whom  others  had  com- 
mitted follies,  should  be  treated  by  her  partner 
with  impassivity. 

The  expression  of  her  ennui  to  Maurice  had 
been  murmurs  rather  than  complaints  hitherto, 
but  once,  when  he  came,  she  spoke  plainly. 

"I  don't  see  what  I  have  to  look  forward  to," 
she  said.  "How  would  you  care  about  it?  I 
don't  know  a  soul.  Two  or  three  of  the  women 
here  have  dropped  a  few  words  to  me — and  I'm 
prepared  with  a  few  lies;  hut  there's  no  occasion 
to  tell  them;  I  don't  get  any  forrader.  I  can't 
make  a  circle  of  acquaintances  living  like  this!" 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  don't  introduce  me  to 


THE  WORLDLINGS  81 

Sir  Noel;  that  was  the  arrangement.  At  least, 
the  arrangement  was  that  I  should  have  every 
chance  of  meeting  people.  Croft  Court  would 
be  a  very  good  place  to  begin  at." 

"I  don't  think  Sir  Noel  would  be  very  rollick- 
ing company  for  you,"  he  said  diffidently.  "You 
would  be  much  duller  at  Croft  Court  than  here." 

"But  I  should  see  it — I  want  to  see  it.  Re- 
member you  are  having  a  very  good  time!  Be- 
sides, there  are  other  people  at  Oakenhurst — you 
tell  me  that  you  hunt,  and  go  out  to  dinner;  there 
are  plenty  of  people  I  would  rather  meet  than  Sir 
Noel.  I  see  the  Countess  of  Wrensfordsley  has 
a  house  there — why  shouldn't  I  be  introduced  to 
herr 

'You  wouldn't  see  her  if  you  went  to  Oaken- 
hurst," he  answered.  "They  went  abroad  for  the 
winter,  and  they  aren't  back  yet.  By  the  way, 
they  pronounce  it  'Wrensley,'  and  she's  spoken 
of  as  'Lady  Wrensfordsley';  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why." 

"But  she  is  the  Countess  of  Wrensfordsley," 
said  Rosa,  omitting  the  redundant  syllable.  "I 
saw  her  name  in  print." 

'Yes;  well,  a  countess  is  called  'Lady,'  I  dis- 
cover. I  tell  you  I  don't  know  why.  I'm  not  an 
authority  on  such  matters ;  I  take  them  as  I  find 
them."    He  played  with  his  watch-chain  nervous- 


88  THE  WORLDLINGS 

ly.  'These  things  arrange  themselves,"  he  went 
on,  repeating  a  phrase  that  he  had  heard  Lady 
Savile  use;  "the  whole  affair  is  new  yet;  it  will 
be  all  right;  if  you  wait  awhile,  everything  will 
come." 

"I  thought  I  should  have  a  flat,"  she  said  sul- 
lenly; "I  don't  want  to  live  in  an  hotel." 

"Well,  surely  a  flat  would  he  slower  still? 
You  would  be  like  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  isl- 
and." 

"I  could  go  out,"  she  muttered,  "I  could  take 
drives." 

"You  can  go  out  now — the  streets  are  already 
here.  I  give  you  my  word  that  it  isn't  all  beer 
and  skittles  for  me!  I  knew  you  thought  I  was 
'having  a  good  time' — I  suppose  in  one  way  I 
am! — but  there's  more  than  a  dash  of  disappoint- 
ment in  it,  too.  If  you  didn't  look  forward  to 
being  in  an  hotel,  I  didn't  hanker  to  live  in  a 
village.  I  wanted  money  in  a  lump;  I  don't  like 
the  cheques — every  time  he  gives  me  one,  it  re- 
minds me  I'm  a  thief." 

"Oh,  rats!"  she  said  impatiently,  "you'd  never 
be  satisfied,  I  believe.  When  you're  'Sir  Philip 
Jardine'  you'll  find  something  wrong!" 

"When  I'm  'Sir  Philip  Jardine'  you'll  have 
five  thousand  a  year,"  said  Maurice,  "and  you 
can  have  a  dozen  flats  if  you  like." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  83 

"With  nobody  to  come  to  see  me  in  them!  I 
tell  you  that  I  want  to  know  people.  Even  five 
thousand  a  year  is  no  good  if  I'm  never  to  have 
any  introductions.  ...  I  haven't  sprung  this  on 
you — it  isn't  anything  fresh ;  from  the  very  com- 
mencement, when  we  sat  talking  in  Lennox 
Street,  I  told  you  that  what  I  wanted  was  to 
make  as  good  a  marriage  as  Phil  would  have  been. 
It  isn't  my  game  to  pick  up  any  friends  I  can, 
and  just  make  the  coin  fly;  I  want  to  marry  a 
swell — I  want  to  go  to  the  top." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "well,  perhaps  you  will." 
"Why  shouldn't  I?"  she  exclaimed  with  sup- 
pressed vehemence.  "Look  at  the  women  who 
do!  Flossie  Coburg  from  the  music-hall  stage! 
a  slim,  slip  of  a  stick,  too,  they  said.  If  she  could 
do  it,  with  nothing  but  her  face  to  attract  any- 
body, I  think  /  ought  to  be  able  to,  in  a  good  po- 
sition. Flossie  Coburg,  if  you  please — a  duchess 
to-day!  And  how  many  more  of  them  are  the 
Countess  of  this,  and  Lady  somebody  else !  Well, 
everyone  remembers  who  they  were !  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  do  it  from  the  music-hall  stage;  I'm  going 
to  do  it  properly  and  be  respected  just  as  much  as 
if  I'd  been  brought  up  among  fashionable  people. 
I  thought  you — you'd  remember  that  you  have  to 
thank  me  for  everything ;  I  thought  you'd  be  glad 


84.  THE  WORLDLINGS 

— more,  that  you'd  be  eager — to  make  as  big  a 
return  as  you  could." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  demanded 
Maurice  again:  "don't  you  see  the  difficulties? 
I'm  a  stranger  everywhere  myself  yet;  I  can't 
make  my  entrance  into  this  precious  society  with 
'Mrs.  Fleming'  on  my  arm.  Wait  a  few  months, 
wait  till  I'm  a  little  more  familiar  with  my  own 
footing;  wait  till  people  have  got  used  to  me.  I 
remember  everything,  but  give  me  a  chance!" 

The  truth  in  the  answer  was  sufficiently  obvious 
for  her  to  realise  afresh  how  smoothly  events 
would  roll  if  only  she  were  to  become  his  wife. 
She  wondered,  after  he  had  left,  whether  the 
chance  would  have  been  born  if  she  had  concealed 
her  discontent  from  him  longer.  Had  those  earl- 
ier murmurs  of  hers  made  her  a  bugbear  to  him? 
And  now  she  had  taunted  him  with  what  she  had 
done!  What  a  fool  she  was;  she  had  lost  more 
ground  still!  her  impulses  were  always  ruinous. 

Yet — yet  surely,  in  a  different  key,  she  might 
open  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that  she  was  a  handsome 
woman?  He  was  ready  enough  to  perceive  beau- 
ty in  others.  How  his  gaze  had  wandered  away 
from  her  to  the  pretty  women  in  the  restaurant! 
She  had  never  forgiven  him  that.  The  imposture 
would  never  be  discovered  now,  and  it  would  be 
the  finest  thing  that  she  could  do,  to  marry  him. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  85 

Yes,  she  would  take  a  sweeter  tone;  she  would 
wait  as  he  had  begged  her  to  do.  The  bond  be- 
tween them  gave  her  the  advantage  of  his  only- 
confidant — with  patience,  and  tact,  she  might  be 
'Lady  Jardine'  after  all." 

While  the  younger  man  was  panting  for  free- 
dom, the  other  had  arrived,  by  the  protracted 
stages  of  the  old,  at  a  point  where  their  medita- 
tions met.  One  day  when  Maurice  had  put  down 
the  newspaper,  and  Sir  Noel  had  murmured,  as 
he  always  did,  "I  thank  you  very  much,  Philip," 
a  long  silence  fell  between  them.  At  last  the 
Baronet  said: 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  you,  Philip.  I — 
have  been  thinking." 

"About  mer  said  Maurice.    "What?" 

Sir  Noel  did  not  answer  at  once;  he  gave  a 
series  of  his  little  nods,  rather  vigorously. 

"I  have  been  thinking  that  the  life  here  must 
be  dull  for  you ;  and  now  many  of  the  neighbours 
will  be  leaving  soon,  too.  I  shall  not  go;  one 
home  is  enough  for  me — I  have  never  seen  the 
town  house  yet." 

"Whose  town  house — ours?"  Maurice  asked, 
surprised.    "I  didn't  know  there  was  one." 

"Certainly  there  is  a  house — in  Prince's  Gar- 
dens; I  told  you  so  long  ago." 

"I  don't  remember,"  said  Maurice. 


86  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"In  Prince's  Gardens.  Of  course  I  told  you 
— why  should  I  make  a  secret  of  it?  Well,  well, 
well,  that  is  not  the  point.  What  was  1  saving? 
You  confuse  me  with  your  foolish  questions.  .  .  . 
Yes!  the  neighbours  will  be  going  to  town,  and 
Oakenhurst  will  be  very  slow  for  you.  Apart 
from  that,  altogether,  you  should  be  seen  in  Lon- 
don, you  mustn't  be  'buried'  here;  you  must  do 
the  right  things." 

Maurice  looked  at  him,  drawing  a  deep,  long 
breath. 

"You  might  go  to  Prince's  Gardens,  or  you 
might  have  chambers — probably  you  would  find 
chambers  more  convenient.  Piccadilly.  You 
should  take  chambers  in  Piccadilly.  It  is  no  life 
for  a  young  man,  to  pass  the  year  here.  You 
should  have  your — your — your  brougham — I 
don't  know  what  you  should  have — your  phaeton ; 
you  should  have  something!  You  must  remem- 
ber that  you  have  a  position  and  things  are  ex- 
pected of  you."  His  tone  implied  that  Maurice 
had  opposed  the  proposal  strenuously.  "Well — " 
he  paused,  and  tapped  his  knees — "you  must  have 
an  allowance;  you  can  draw,  say,  three  thousand 
a  year.  Come!  three  thousand  a  year.  It'll  be 
enough,  eh?" 

"It's  extremely  generous,"  said  Maurice. 

"No,  it  isn't  a  matter  of  'generosity' — it  is  your 


THE  WORLDLINGS  87 

right.  And,  besides,  I  wish  it.  It  is  absurd  that 
you  should  live  as  you  are  living  now,  like  a  lad 
with  pocket-money.  It  will  all  be  yours  by-and- 
by,  too.  Three  thousand  a  year  is  not  so  much 
that  I  cannot  spare  it,  but  it  will  do  to  go  on  with. 
You  must  take  chambers,  of  course.  I  am  no 
good  to  you  for  company — in  town  you  will  find 
livelier  companions  than  an  old  father  with  a 
cough,  who  makes  you  read  the  paper  to  him. 
And  I  shall  get  on  very  well,  don't  you  fear !  I 
have  my  own  occupations,  I — I  think  a  great 
deal.  At  my  age  one  is  best  by  oneself.  But — 
but,  all  the  same,  I  shall  miss  you,  and — you  will 
come  to  see  me,  Philip?" 

"I  shall  come  very  often,"  said  Maurice,  "oft- 
ener  than  you'll  want  me."    He  was  touched. 

"You  will  not  come  oftener  than  I  shall  want 
you ;  but  I  know  my  duty,  and  you  will  go !  Well, 
well,  well,  we  talk  a  great  deal  about  nothing! 
I  can  never  keep  to  the  subject  in  speaking  of 
anything  to  you — you  go  off  at  a  tangent  all  the 
time;  you  always  annoyed  me  with  that  habit  as 
a  boy!" 

He  waved  his  hand  impatiently,  as  a  sign  that 
the  conversation  had  ended:  and  Maurice  saw 
that  he  wished  to  be  alone. 


CHAPTER  VI 

He  was  receiving,  for  his  own  expenditure, 
twenty-two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year,  and 
occasionally  the  knowledge  had  power  to  thrill 
Maurice  with  astonishment  still.  But  he  did  not 
often  draw  rein  to  contemplate  the  figures;  the 
figures  of  his  income,  after  all,  were  unimpor- 
tant; his  means  were  practically  unbounded,  for 
no  man  about  town  could  have  raised  thousands 
with  greater  promptitude.  With  a  subtlety  of 
distinction  somewhat  difficult  to  follow,  however, 
he  felt  that,  while  he  was  dishonest  to  accept  Sir 
Noel's  allowance,  he  would  be  considerably  baser 
to  exceed  it;  and  his  only  visit  to  a  bill  discounter's 
was — in  the  language  of  the  friend  whom  he 
obliged — made  to  "jump  up  behind  a  pal's  back." 
The  abbreviation  "to  jump"  was  not  yet  general. 

Moreover  he  tried  to  avoid  running  into  debt, 
though  it  often  seemed  to  him  to-day  that  ready 
money  was  the  last  thing  necessary  in  life.  His 
difficulty  was  no  longer  to  pay  for  what  he  need- 
ed, but  to  persuade  people  to  be  paid.  His  tailor 
met  his  request  for  an  account  with  a  deprecating 
smile,  and  he  might  have  had  six  rows  of  boots 

88 


THE  WORLDLINGS  89 

delivered  now  without  producing  a  coin.  The 
florist  from  whom  he  ordered  bouquets,  and  who 
sent  a  girl  to  decorate  his  table  when  he  gave  a 
dinner,  even  the  restauranteurs  who  were  used  to 
his  patronage,  and  the  jeweller  who  had  had  the 
privilege  of  supplying  him  with  bracelets,  all  wore 
the  air  of  being  reimbursed  superabundantly  by 
the  mere  honour  of  Mr.  Jardine's  approval.  Giv- 
en half  a  sovereign  a  day  for  hansoms,  it  appeared 
to  him  that  he  might  have  lived  at  the  ra,te  of  ten 
thousand  a  year  without  drawing  a  cheque. 

Yet,  if  ready  money  was  not  an  essential,  it 
provided  him  with  a  keen  pleasure — he  gave 
freely.  Not  to  public  charities — as  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  poverty,  the  existence  of  public  chari- 
ties wasn't  a  familiar  fact  to  him.  But  no  beggar 
ever  appealed  to  him  in  vain.  During  his  months 
in  London  there  had  not  been  an  occasion  on 
which  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  distress  in  the 
streets,  or  asked  himself  if  it  was  simulated.  Once 
he  had  risked  ridicule.  In  approaching  White's 
with  a  member  whom  he  had  first  met  at  the  Pro- 
vands',  he  had  passed  a  man  of  about  his  own 
age,  in  the  station  of  life  that  he  himself  had  re- 
cently occupied.  The  man  was  walking  slowly; 
his  eyes  were  vacant  and  despair  was  written  on 
his  face:  perhaps  he  had  just  applied  for  a  billet 
and  been  refused.    Maurice  took  out  a  five-pound 


90  THE  WORLDLINGS 

note,  and  turned  quickly.  "I  owe  you  this!"  he 
said,  pushing  it  into  the  breastpocket  of  the 
threadbare  coat;  and  he  had  entered  the  hall  be- 
fore the  man  realised  what  had  been  done. 

Nevertheless  he  was  plucking  the  "roses  and 
raptures"  of  his  desires.  His  chambers  were  in 
Bury  Street,  adjacent  to  Boodle's;  the  proprietor 
of  the  club  was  the  landlord.  They  had  been  rec- 
ommended by  Captain  Boulger,  a  brother  of 
Lady  Savile's,  who  had  rooms  in  the  same  house, 
and  who  assured  him  that  he  would  find  Boodle's 
the  best  club  in  London,  because  one  only  paid 
the  bills  there  when  one  liked ;  the  conditions  were 
so  happy  that  he  feared  they  couldn't  last.  From 
Boulger,  Maurice  had  acquired  various  hints. 
He  had  his  stall  where  his  entrance  was  watched 
for,  and  his  box  when  he  kept  behind  the  cur- 
tains. He  had  known  his  first  Ascot,  and  won  ? 
"pony"  on  Tristan,  and  lunched  among  the  sur- 
prising millinery  in  the  Guards'  tent.  He  had 
been  introduced  to  Bignon's  and  seen  Paris  when 
the  acacias  were  in  bloom.  He  had  even  made 
his  bows  on  fashionable  staircases  while  bands 
were  playing,  though  this  far  more  rarely  than 
the  cards  among  the  photographs  on  his  mantel- 
piece required.  And  he  did  not  find  it  all  Dead 
Sea  fruit  and  reflect  that  the  overseer's  simple 
lot  had  held  more  genuine  happiness.    He  did  not 


THE  WORLDLINGS  91 

sigh  that  it  was  worthless  and  hollow.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  just  as  good  as  he  had  known 
that  it  would  be,  and  excepting  for  pangs  of  con- 
science, which  he  overcame,  he  enjoyed  it  very 
much. 

Rosa's  spirits  also  had  been  raised.  The  change 
in  his  affairs  had  provided  her  with  more  than 
the  flat  that  she  now  occupied — she  had  obtained 
one,  furnished,  for  a  year ;  Maurice  did  not  forget 
that  she  was  a  stranger  in  London,  and  she  had 
had  to  thank  him  for  many  amusing  evenings; 
indeed,  he  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  she  was 
not  allowing  herself  to  be  seen  about  with  him 
too  often.  He  did  not  forget  Rosa,  and  he  did 
not  forget  his  promise  to  Sir  Noel.  He  never 
wrote  to  him,  because  he  feared  to  do  so,  but  he 
telegraphed  often — inquiries  about  an  indisposi- 
tion, or  notifications  of  arrival — and  many  times 
he  declined  an  invitation  that  he  would  have  been 
glad  to  accept,  because  he  knew  that  the  old  man 
would  be  disappointed  if  his  visit  were  postponed. 

He  had  waited  so  long  for  some  brightness  in 
life  that  he  was  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends 
now.  The  season,  however,  had  not  been  wasted 
on  him,  although  he  shirked  the  staircases.  His 
introductions  among  men  had  been  numerous 
enough,  and  he  had  studied  them  with  an  atten- 
tion which  few  of  them  had  inspired  before.    He 


92  THE  WORLDLINGS 

had  learnt  many  things,  besides  where  the  roses 
grew,  from  hearing  them  talk — perhaps  chiefly 
that  audacity  was  even  a  stronger  weapon  than 
he  had  understood.  lie  had  learnt  not  to  make 
spasmodic  strokes  when  he  was  out  of  his  depth 
in  conversation,  but  to  maintain  silence  and  look 
bored;  he  had  learnt  that  the  man  who  has  the 
self-possession  to  look  bored  instead  of  embar- 
rassed in  such  circumstances  can  embarrass  the 
conversationalists,  and  retire  from  the  group  with 
honours. 

Lady  Wrensfordsley  had  spent  a  few  days  at 
Whichcote  early  in  April,  and  then  gone  to  town. 
She  had  taken  a  furnished  house  in  Chapel  Street 
— now  Aldford  Street — Mayfair.  Maurice  had 
already  left  Oakenhurst  when  she  returned  to 
England,  but  a  card  from  her  had  come  to  his 
chambers  soon  afterwards,  and  Sir  Noel,  who  was 
well  aware  of  it,  had  asked  him  more  than  once 
if  he  had  called  upon  her,  or  seen  her  and  her 
daughter  anywhere  else.  He  had  neither  called, 
nor  met  them ;  and  in  deference  to  the  old  man's 
wishes  he  decided  to  do  his  duty  without  further 
delay. 

Lady  Wrensfordsley  was  at  home,  he  heard; 
and  he  found  her  alone  when  he  was  announced. 
She  was  a  younger  woman  than  he  had  pictured 
her — barely  fifty — and  Time,  with  its  customary 


THE  WORLDLINGS  93 

unfairness,  had  treated  her  with  the  generosity 
which  it  never  displays  but  to  those  whom  nature 
has  already  favoured.  If  she  still  mourned  for 
her  lost  youth,  it  was  known  only  to  herself;  and 
to  the  world  to-day  she  appeared  to  find  her  flir- 
tation with  middle-age  a  charming  substitute. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Jardine,"  she 
said. 

He  murmured  something  about  his  regret  at 
having  missed  her  when  she  last  called  at  the 
Court. 

"How  is  Sir  Noel?" 

"My  father  is  very  well,  thanks,"  he  said. 
"He  wished  to  be  remembered  to  you,  only  he 
wished  it  much  more  gracefully  than  I've  given 
his  message." 

"Your  father  and  I  are  great  friends,"  she 
said.  "My  one  complaint  about  him  is  that  he 
doesn't  come  to  see  us  often  enough;  but,  of 
course,  he  says  he  is  an  invalid — though  I  am 
sure  I  don't  see  any  signs  of  it — so  one  has  to 
forgive  him.    You  take  tea,  don't  you?" 

The  tea-things  were  on  the  table,  and  he  said 
that  he  did. 

"I  think  it's  very  nice  to  see  men  take  tea," 
she  said,  dropping  in  the  second  lump  of  sugar; 
"it  seems  to  bring  them  so  much  nearer  to  us. 
And  they  never  used  to!" 


9i  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"Women  are  civilising  us  by  degrees,"  he  haz- 
arded. 

"Civilisation  being  typified  by  the  teapot? 
Well,  it's  not  bad.  The  French  were  quite  right 
to  make  'civilisation'  and  the  'teapot'  both  fem- 
inine.    Cream?" 

"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

The  door  had  opened,  and  a  girl  crossed  the 
room  slowly.  She  was  tall  and  very  pale;  in 
his  momentary  impression  of  her,  all  the  colour 
of  her  face  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in  her  beau- 
tiful lips,  and  the  depths  of  her  unregarding  eyes. 
She  was  more  than  "lovely" — he  remembered  on 
a  sudden  that  Sir  Noel  had  used  that  word  in 
speaking  of  her;  now  that  he  looked  at  her,  it 
sounded  insignificant  to  him.  As  he  watched  her 
move  towards  them,  he  was  sensible  that  when  a 
poem  had  stimulated  his  imagination  of  an  aris- 
tocrat— of  a  girl  whose  freshness  and  bearing 
were  instinct  with  race — it  had  been  the  vague 
image  of  such  a  girl  as  this  that  stirred  his 
thoughts. 

Lady  Wrensfordsley  turned  her  head  now.  He 
could  see  no  space  to  set  down  his  teacup,  and, 
as  he  rose,  it  lurched  in  the  saucer  perilously. 

The  girl's  voice  was  low  and  clear,  as  he  had 
felt  sure  that  it  would  be.  The  effect  that  she 
had  on  him  was  at  once  pleasurable  and  the  re- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  95 

verse.  He  was  filled  with  a  quick  desire  to  rouse 
her  interest,  but  he  had  never  felt  more  awkward, 
and  for  fully  a  minute  after  the  introduction  he 
could  think  of  nothing  to  say  to  her,  nor  to  her 
mother  in  her  presence. 

"Tea,  Helen?" 

"Please,"  she  said. 

"I  was  just  saying  to  Mr.  Jardine  that  the 
teapot  typified  civilisation,"  said  Lady  Wrens- 
fordsley;  "or  perhaps  Mr.  Jardine  was  saying  it 
to  me — I  don't  know  that  it  matters — or  that  it's 
a  fact.  The  point  is  that  it  never  struck  me  to 
think  so  till  now,  and  that  I  shall  drink  tea  the 
last  thing  at  night  without  scruples  any  more." 

"Do  you  have  tea  the  last  thing  at  night?" 
asked  Maurice,  painfully  conscious  that  he  was 
uttering  an  ineptitude. 

"It  was  very  wrong  of  you  to  tell  my  mother 
anything  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Jardine,"  said  the  girl, 
composedly;  "now  she  will  drink  two  cups  in- 
stead of  one !    Are  the  buns  hot,  mother?" 

"They  are  supposed  to  be  hot,"  said  Lady 
Wrensfordsley.  "Mr.  Jardine  can  tell  you,  if  he 
is  not  too  polite  to  be  sincere." 

"Thev're  very  good,"  he  said,  lifting  the  dish. 
"May  I?" 

"Thanks,"  said  the  girl;  "can't  you  assure  us 
that  buns  are  distinguished  too?    We  have  a  pas- 


96  THE  WORLDLINGS 

sion  for  buns;  we  are  constant  to  them  even  in 
the  summer,  and  if  they  were  only  the  type  of 
something,  we  should  be  happier." 

Her  own  aplomb  intensified  his  discomfiture, 
and  it  was  as  if  his  unfortunate  reference  to 
civilisation  had  woven  a  net  from  which  he 
couldn't  escape.  He  began  to  feel  that  he  was 
looking  a  fool,  but  amid  buns  and  tea  his  mind 
was  benumbed,  and  an  idea  seemed  as  far  away 
from  him  as  did  the  girl  herself. 

He  was  grateful  that  at  this  moment  the  foot- 
man announced  Lady  and  Miss  Savile,  but  be- 
fore long  his  relief  gave  place  to  a  new  feeling  of 
irritation.  The  visitors  were  evidently  on  terms 
of  intimacy  here,  and  after  a  few  minutes,  Agatha 
Savile  had  fixed  her  large  inquiring  eyes  upon 
him,  and,  for  the  time  at  least,  made  him  her 
own.  Primarily  he  had  welcomed  the  opportun- 
ity to  show  that  he  was  less  stupid  than  he  had 
been  suggesting,  but  now,  since  the  others  no 
longer  listened,  he  was  annoyed  as  much  by  his 
recovered  fluency  as  by  the  young  woman's  pro- 
prietorial air.  He  was  conscious  that  he  himself 
was  lending  colour  to  her  assumption  of  a  mu- 
tual understanding,  and  perceiving  himself  in- 
competent to  efface  this  impression  without  rude- 
ness, his  resentment  against  her  increased. 

The  angle  at  which  Lady  Savile  held  her  cup, 


THE  WORLDLINGS  97 

however,  at  last  assured  him  that  it  was  empty, 
and  he  promptly  seized  the  chance  it  afforded 
him  to  shift  his  position.  His  gaze  was  now 
enabled  to  take  the  direction  of  his  thoughts. 

"When  do  you  go  back  to  Whichcote,  Lady 
Helen?"  he  asked. 

"After  Goodwood,"  she  said;  "the  season  is 
very  nearly  over,  isn't  it?" 

"Are  you  sorry?" 

"Xo,  I'm  very  fond  of  Whichcote;  there  is  al- 
ways an  attraction  about  one's  home,  don't  you 
think  so?" 

"My  own  home  is  so  new  to  me  that  I  can  only 
guess,"  answered  Maurice.  "All  the  same,  I  can 
guess  very  well." 

"You  have  travelled  a  great  deal,"  she  said, 
"haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  for  years.  I  have  spent  half  my  life 
abroad." 

"It  must  be  very  fascinating;  I  should  love  to 
travel." 

"Though  home  is  so  dear  to  you?" 

"Oh,  but  home  is  never  so  dear  as  when  one 
returns  to  it,  you  know.  I  was,  somehow  or 
other,  very  dull  at  Whichcote  last  winter,  but 
when  we  came  back  from  Algiers,  the  few  days 
we  spent  at  Oakenhurst  were  delightful  to  me. 
I  think  if  this  house  hadn't  been  taken,  I  should 


98  THE  WORLDLINGS 

have  begged  to  stay  there  and  forego  the  season 
altogether." 

"I  am  glad  you  didn't,  or  I  should  hardly  have 
met  you  so  soon." 

"You've  been  in  Oakenhurst  verv  little,  I  un- 
derstand.  To  me,  of  course,  it  has  the  charm 
of  association — my  childhood  was  passed  there." 

The  word  stirred  his  mind  with  the  wish  that 
he  had  known  her  in  her  childhood — with  the 
enormous  difficulty  of  imagining  her  as  a  child. 
He  wanted  to  say  something  of  it,  but  the  instant 
in  which  it  could  be  said  naturally  had  gone  while 
he  hesitated;  so,  instead,  he  had  recourse  to  a 
platitude  and  murmured : 

"One's  childhood  is  one's  happiest  time." 

This  commonplace,  which  was  rendered  even 
tritcr  by  his  disgust  of  it,  found  its  way  to  Miss 
S  a  vile. 

"Do  vou  think  so?"  she  said.  "Do  you? — 
vou  don't?" 

m 

"I  think  so,  indeed,"  he  said;  "my  own  was 
decidedly  the  happiest  time  of  my  life." 

"How  sweet!"  said  Miss  Savile.  "Now,  I  was 
such  a  shocking  little  pickle  that  I  was  always 
being  punished.    Wasn't  I,  Helen?" 

The  girl's  attention,  however,  had  strayed.  It 
had  just  been  remarked  that  somebody's  death 
was  a  most  merciful  release  for  his  widow,  and 


THE  WORLDLINGS  99 

Lady  Wrensfordsley  was  asking  to  be  reminded 
to  write  a  letter  of  condolence  to  her  before  they 
went  out. 

Maurice  rose  and  made  his  adieux.  The  mem- 
ory of  the  room,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  had 
never  appeared  to  less  advantage,  lingered  in 
his  brain  with  almost  painful  vividness.  He  was 
depressed,  and  the  depression,  which  was  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  causer  deepened  as  he 
walked.  He  recalled  his  engagement  for  the 
evening  with  distaste,  and  suddenly  his  life  looked 
to  him  as  empty  as  he  had  found  the  period  at 
Croft  Court  while  he  hungered  for  town.  It  re- 
vealed itself  to  him  that  in  the  whole  world  there 
was  not  a  soul  who  cared  for  him,  excepting,  per- 
haps, the  old  man  whose  affection  he  held  by  de- 
ceit. He  felt  lonely  and  miserable.  A  passion- 
ate desire  for  sympathy  possessed  him,  though  he 
could  not  have  put  his  sorrow  into  words.  He 
wanted  to  feel  the  touch  of  a  woman  who  under- 
stood ;  he  ached  for  a  woman's  comprehension  of 
a  mood  which  he  but  dimly  comprehended  him- 
self. 


CHAPTER  VII 

He  had  been  considering  where  he  should  go 
when  town  began  to  empty,  and  had  inclined 
towards  Trouville,  where  there  would  be  several 
fascinating  persons  of  his  acquaintance,  but  when 
the  Cowes  week  was  over,  he  went  instead  to 
Oakenhurst.  The  life  he  was  leading  had  recent- 
ly filled  him  with  self-contempt,  and  a  longing 
had  sprung  up  within  him  to  be  done  with  it  all. 
He  could  not  be  unaware  that  the  healthier  frame 
of  mind  was  due  to  the  occasional  meetings  he  had 
had  with  a  girl  whose  air  of  fastidious  purity  had 
caused  him  to  feel  ashamed  of  himself;  but  he 
shirked  the  perception  that  the  force  which  took 
him  to  the  Court  was  the  wish  that  their  meetings 
should  continue. 

He  had  not,  during  the  last  fortnight,  failed 
to  tell  himself  that  in  casting  away  the  roses  for 
the  sake  of  beholding  the  lily  he  was  renouncing 
the  substance  for  the  shadow,  for  of  a  surety  no- 
body  could  be  less  interested  in  his  proceedings 
than  was  she.  In  whatever  degrc  of  unworthi- 
ness  he  might  stand  beside  her,  he  realised  that 


THE  WORLDLINGS  101 

he  would  be  a  stranger  to  her.  But  the  admira- 
tion she  awoke  in  him  was  not  diminished  by  the 
consciousness  that  he  was  forgotten  as  soon  as  his 
back  was  turned;  nor  since  his  visit  to  Chapel 
Street  had  he  refused  an  invitation  to  a  house 
where  he  hoped  to  see  her  because  he  knew  that 
she  would  never  remark  his  absence. 

God  made  Woman  last,  and  she  is  the  best  of 
His  works.  The  girl  was  not  twenty-five:  she 
had  never  spoken  to  Maurice  a  word  that  sufficed 
to  distinguish  her  from  the  well-bred  crowd  in 
which  she  moved;  no  glimpse  of  her  soul  had 
been  vouchsafed  to  him  save  that  which  every 
virtuous  woman  who  has  beauty  shows  in  her 
gaze  to  every  man  who  has  imagination;  yet  she 
had  lifted  him  from  the  mire  without  effort,  and 
without  will. 

At  Oakenhurst,  as  was  natural,  he  saw  her 
often,  and  his  knowledge  grew  of  how  much  their 
vapid  conversations  meant  to  him ;  the  knowledge 
grew  that,  though  she  might  be  silent,  she  held 
him  by  her  presence.  The  poise  of  her  head,  the 
curve  of  her  cheek,  the  folds  of  her  dress,  all 
these  things  stole  into  his  being.  Fancy  was 
much  kinder  to  him  than  she,  and  sometimes  in 
his  reveries  he  talked  to  her  as  freely  as  he  could 
ever  hope  to  talk  to  anyone  now.  Actually  he 
progressed  very  slowly  in  her  good  graces,  and 


108  THE  WORLDLINGS 

though  lie  dared  to  seek  no  more  than  her  f  riend- 
shij),  her  reserve  humiliated  him. 

One  day  he  admitted  something  like  it.  He 
had  lunched  at  Whichcote,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
he  found  himself  alone  with  her  in  the  garden. 
He  had  never  felt  further  from  her  than  during 
the  last  half-hour;  it  had  been  almost  as  if  they 
had  met  for  the  first  time. 

"I  can't  explain  it,"  he  murmured;  he  was 
speaking  as  much  to  himself  as  to  her. 

Her  eyes  wandered  to  him  in  mute  interroga- 
tion; that  interrogation  of  politeness  which  was 
the  most  he  had  ever  roused  in  her. 

"I  can't  explain  why  I  find  so  little  to  say  to 
vou.  It's  an  odd  confession,  isn't  it? — not  the 
sort  of  confession  a  tactful  man  would  make — 
but  it  doesn't  matter,  because  you  know  I  find 
little  to  say,  whether  I  confess  it,  or  not.  I  won- 
der if  I  may  ask  you  something?" 

"Why  not?"  she  said:  "what  is  it  you  want 
to  ask,  Mr.  Jardine?" 

"The  inquiry's  even  blunter  than  the  confes- 
sion; I  want  to  ask  if  you  dislike  me." 

"Dislike  you?"  she  said.  Her  eyebrows  rose. 
"Why  should  I  dislike  you?  What  a  strange 
idea!*' 

"What  an  uncouth  question,  you  mean,"  said 
Maurice.      "And  that's  just  it — I  feel  'uncouth' 


THE  WORLDLINGS  103 

when  I  come  near  you.  Pray  don't  mistake  me 
— you- are  all  that  is  gracious — but  I  have  an  un- 
comfortable feeling  that,  whatever  I  do,  you  find 
it  wrong." 

"Have  I  suggested,"  she  said,  "that  you  do 
wrong?  It  was  dreadfully  stupid  of  me  if  I  have ; 
I  ought  to  apologise  to  you." 

"Oh,  take  me  seriously,"  he  begged;  "you 
know  very  well  that  if  you  owed  me  an  apology, 
I  couldn't  have  said  what  I  did.  But  you  do 
suggest  that  I  do  wrong.  Unconsciously  your 
eyes  suggested  it  just  now  when  you  turned  to 
me;  your  voice  suggests  it  sometimes  when  you 
answer.  You  typify  a  world  that's  very  new  to 
me,  Lady  Helen,  and  you  make  me  feel  that  I 
shall  be  a  stranger  in  it  as  long  as  I  live." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "I'm 
afraid  my  manner  must  be  unfortunate — I 
needn't  tell  you  that  it  isn't  intentional.  You 
remind  me  of  what  a  woman  once  said  to  me. 
When  we  had  become  great  friends,  she  said: 
'Until  I  knew  you  well,  you  always  gave  me  the 
feeling  that  my  frock  didn't  fit.'  1  assure  you 
that  I'm  really  a  very  natural  girl  and  that  if  I 
thought  I  had  affectations,  I  should  hate  myself." 

"You  haven't,"  said  Maurice.  "To  be  what 
you  are,  is,  I  know,  as  natural  to  you  as  to 
breathe;  that's  why  I  strike  you  as  uncouth." 


104  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"You  keep  insisting,"  she  returned,  "on  a  word 
that's  the  very  last  one  I  should  have  thought  of 
using,  and  it  is  more  than  absurd  of  you.  And 
I  don't  know  even  now  what  my  fault  actually 
is! 

'You,  too,  have  used  a  wrong  word,"  he  said. 
"Whether  my  choice  of  'uncouth'  was  good  or 
bad,  there  can  certainly  be  no  question  of  my 
pain  being  your  'fault.'  I  suppose  the  fact  is 
that  I  am  not  so  quick  as  I  thought  I  was.  We 
all  have  our  vanities — mine  is  the  belief  that  I 
acquire  very  readily.  Of  late  I  have  set  myself 
to  acquire  a  great  many  things.  I  needn't  tell 
you  that  my  life  hasn't  been  passed  in  society, 
because  you're  perfectly  aware  of  it.  I  went 
abroad  when  I  was  very  young,  and  I  had  to  work 
for  my  living  with  my  gloves  off.  If  you  had 
been  in  New  York,  Lady  Helen,  or  in  Melbourne, 
or  any  other  city  that  I've  known,  I  should  have 
been  as  far  removed  from  the  chance  of  being 
presented  to  you  as  is  the  poorest  man  in  Lon- 
don now.  Well,  as  I  say,  I  determined  to  pick 
up  all  that  I  knew  I  lacked ;  and  to  some  extent, 
till  I  met  you,  I  thought  I  had  succeeded.  Per- 
haps you've  merely  shown  me  how  far  one  may 
deceive  oneself,  and  the  truth  hurts  a  bit." 

She  did  not  reply  at  once;  she  sat  looking  be- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  105 

yond  her  in  a  little  perplexed  silence.    When  she 
broke  it,  her  tone  sounded  friendlier  in  his  ears. 

"You've  been  very  frank — I  feel  very  hon- 
oured that  you  should  have  spoken  so  frankly  to 
me — I  won't  insult  you  by  pretending  to  misun- 
derstand what  you  said.  You  mean  that  the  life 
you're  leading  is  unfamiliar  as  yet;  but  because 
it's  unfamiliar,  I  think  you're  inclined  to  imagine 
that  it's  evident  to  all  the  world  that  you  find  it 
so.  I'm  not  expressing  myself  very  well — or, 
rather,  I'm  only  expressing  half  of  what  it's 
in  my  mind  to  say — but  you  must  surely  under- 
stand that  one  is  judged  superficially?  I  think 
even  by  our  dearest  we  are  only  judged  super- 
ficially. Certainly  our  acquaintances  don't  look 
below  the  surface.  For  instance,  you  and  I  meet 
often,"  she  went  on  with  a  quiet  smile,  "but,  as 
you  just  told  me,  you  regard  me  as  a  much  more 
classical  person  than  I  am.  In  the  same  way, 
your  deficiencies  are  much  clearer  to  yourself 
than  to  your  neighbours ;  if  we  don't  perceive  all 
your  virtues,  we  miss  a  great  many  of  your 
faults." 

"Faults,"  said  Maurice,  "yes;  but  deficiencies 
— I  doubt  it !  My  deficiencies  limit  my  allusions. 
We  come  back  to  our  starting-point — I  have  very 
little  to  say  to  you." 


106  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  in  the  last  five  min- 
utes you  have  found  a  good  deal!" 

"I've  prosed;  I've  talked  about  myself.  I 
would  much  rather  have  had  the  ability  to  talk 
about  you." 

"If  you  had  done  that,"  she  said  more  formal- 
lv,  "I'm  afraid  we  should  both  have  been  bored. 
As  it  is,  I've  been  very  interested." 

"You  said  one  thing  that  especially  interested 
me"  replied  Maurice  in  a  quick  effort  to  recover 
the  lost  ground;  "you  said  that  we  were  judged 
superficially  even  by  our  dearest.  Do  you  think 
that's  true?" 

"I  think  so,"  she  said  slowly,  "yes;  I  think 
everyone  must  be  conscious  of  a  self  that  she's 
a  little  shy  of;  and  there's  a  difficulty  about  mak- 
ing it  known  to  others  even  when  she  wants  to. 
Some  clever  man — I  don't  know  who,  because  I 
am  extremely  ill-informed — wrote  that  words 
were  given  us  to  conceal  our  thoughts.  It  has 
often  seemed  to  me  that  they  do  that  even  when 
we  desire  most  intensely  that  they  should  express 
them." 

Before  he  could  answer,  Lady  Wrcnsfordsley's 
voice  was  heard,  and  she  made  her  reappearance 
in  the  company  of  a  young  man  of  perhaps  eight 
or  nine  and  twenty,  whom  Helen  welcomed  as 
"Bobbie." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  107 

"I  don't  know  if  you've  met  Mr.  Seymour, 
Mr.  Jardine?"  said  Lady  Wrensfordsley.  "He's 
myx  nephew;  it's  quite  the  only  recommendation 
he  has." 

Bobbie  Seymour  smiled  pleasantly,  and  put 
out  his  hand.  He  had  also,  Maurice  thought,  the 
recommendation  of  good  looks.  He  was  well- 
built,  and  well-dressed,  and  well-mannered,  the 
sort  of  young  man  who  knows  such  charming 
women  in  Punch. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  he  said.  "You  won't  accept 
that  as  final,  will  you?  I  come  to  my  aunt  for 
advice,  but  never  for  a  character." 

"You  may  come  for  advice,"  she  said,  "but 
you  never  take  it.  Mr.  Seymour  is  an  ornament 
of  the  War  Office,  Mr.  Jardine.  I  have  never 
understood  what  they  do  in  the  War  Office — 
that  was  why  I  was  glad  when  he  went  into  it — 
but  as  well  as  I  can  make  out,  the  duties  consist 
entirely  of  applying  for  leave." 

"Poor  Bobbie!"  exclaimed  the  girl  gaily.  "And 
he's  quite  convinced  he's  overworked — aren't 
you?" 

"Awful  shame,"  he  said  with  another  of  his 
pleasant  smiles,  "to  talk  such  bosh,  Aunt  Sophy! 
We're  kept  at  it  frightfully  hard,  I  can  tell  you. 
How's  Pip?"  he  inquired  of  his  cousin. 


108  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"Pip's  cured,"  she  said;  "he's  back  again,  and 
in  the  best  of  spirits." 

"Bravo  Pip!  I  think  I'll  go  and  hare  a  look 
at  him.    Will  you  come?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  carelessly;  "if  you're  so  inter- 
ested, I  don't  mind." 

"Bobbie's  always  interested  when  the  trouble's 
over,"  said  Lady  Wrensfordsley.  "While  Pip 
was  ill,  the  only  suggestion  Bobbie  had  to  make 
was,  'Send  him  to  a  vet.' 

"Well,  you've  found  out  how  good  it  was!" 
said  the  young  man;  he  had  joined  in  the  laugh 
against  himself  genially  enough.  As  he  saunt- 
ered beside  the  girl  across  the  lawn,  Maurice 
could  see  that  her  face  was  turned  to  him  as  if  he 
continued  to  amuse  her.  Since  his  advent  the 
garden  had  looked  less  sunny  to  Maurice,  and 
the  new  sense  of  intimacy  that  had  begun  to 
tingle  in  his  veins  seemed  to  have  received  a  sud- 
den check.  The  shadow  on  his  countenance  was 
not  lost  upon  Lady  Wrensfordsley,  and  she  con- 
templated him  with  cordial  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

If  Helen  had  remained  single  until  the  age  of 
twenty-five,  or  its  neighbourhood,  it  had  not  been 
for  lack  of  offers.  This,  of  course,  is  a  cliche 
used  about  every  girl  who  has  passed  her  second 
season,  but  several  of  the  offers  made  to  Helen 
had  had  her  mother's  warm  approval.  No  at- 
tempt had  ever  been  made  to  force  her  inclina- 
tions, however,  and  when  she  had  declared  that 
the  idea  was  distasteful  to  her,  the  matter  had 
always  been  allowed  to  drop. 

She  was  Lady  Wrensfordsley's  only  child, 
and  although  neither  woman  perfectly  under- 
stood the  other,  the  bond  between  them  was  a  very 
strong  one.  The  old  Earl  had  been  a  good  fel- 
low, and  a  bad  husband.  He  had  led  a  very  fast 
existence  on  the  turf,  and  lost  large  sums  of 
money  at  Monte  Carlo;  he  had  also  lost  large 
sums  of  money  at  Ostend,  and  various  Belgian 
resorts  where  the  authorities  met  his  views.  His 
career  had  been  as  rapid  as  Hare  and  Hounds, 
and,  as  the  hare,  he  had  always  dropped  expens- 
ive paper  in  his  trail.     The  title  had  died  with 

109 


110  THE  WORLDLINGS 

him,  and  Lady  Wrensfordsley,  who  was  in  pos- 
session of  about  four  thousand  a  year,  had  secret 
memories  of  "poor  George"  which  rendered  her 
diffident  of  playing  the  part  of  Heaven  in  con- 
nection with  her  daughter's  marriage. 

None  the  less  she  desired  that  Heaven  should 
make  it  to  her  own  satisfaction;  and  the  gloom 
that  she  had  observed  on  Maurice's  face  would 
have  gratified  her  even  more  if  she  could  have 
detected  some  encouragement  in  the  girl's.  No 
prospect  of  seeing  her  so  advantageously  settled 
had  hitherto  occurred  as  the  prospect  latterly 
opened  by  his  obvious  admiration;  and  the  mother 
would  have  been  less  than  a  mother,  and  more 
than  human,  if  she  had  not  nursed  hopes  of  his 
proposing. 

Her  hopes  were  shared  by  Sir  Noel.  He  was 
old;  the  name  and  the  place  meant  a  great  deal 
to  him;  he  would  have  liked  much  to  see  Maurice 
marry  and  to  pat  a  grandson  on  the  cheek  before 
he  died.  The  wish  that  his  son  should  fall  in 
love  with  Lady  Helen  had  even  formed  in  his 
mind  before  the  impostor's  return  from  South 
Africa,  and  the  delav  before  thev  met  had  irri- 
tated  him  more  than  Maurice  had  perceived.  In 
the  summer,  the  attraction  that  Whichcote  evi- 
dently exercised  had  raised  his  spirits  not  a  little, 
but  when  August  and  September  had  passed  and 


THE  WORLDLINGS  111 

no  signs  of  progress  were  to  be  discerned,  he  be- 
gan to  grow  impatient. 

"Philip,"  he  said  one  night,  as  they  sat  to- 
gether, "you  ought  to  marry." 

"To  marry?"  echoed  Maurice;  "what  has  put 
that  idea  into  your  head?  I'm  not  a  marrying 
man." 

"But  you  must  be  a  marrying  man;  it  is  re- 
quired of  you — you  have  obligations  that  you 
can't  shirk.  It  is  not  as  if  you  were  nineteen; 
you  have  come  to  an  age  when  you  have  duties. 
You  always  oppose  things;  it  annoys  me  very 
much  in  you.  You  ought  to  stand  for  some  con- 
stituency— you  object  to  that.  You  ought  to 
take  a  wife — you  object  to  that.  It  appears  to 
me  that  you  object  to  everything  that  is  essen- 
tial." 

"In  other  words,  I'm  a  failure?"  said  Maurice, 
with  a  nervous  laugh.  "Be  patient  with  me,  gov- 
ernor!" 

Chagrin  struggled  with  affection  in  the  old 
man's  regard. 

"You  are  not  a  failure,  and  you  know  that  I 
am  proud  of  you.  I  have  not  said  much,  but 
you  can  see.  You  know  very  well  that  it  has 
cheered  me  up  a  great  deal  to  have  you  with  me, 
and — and  I  understand  things;  I  appreciated 
your  coming  to  me  so  often  from  town  and  neg- 


112  THE  WORLDLINGS 

lecting  your  pleasures  for  the  sake  of  your  fa- 
ther; you  would  not  have  done  so  once.  Well, 
well,  well,  it  is  not  to  praise  you  that  I  have  be- 
gun to  talk — I  am  very  vexed!  I  say  it  Ls  not  as 
if  you  were  nineteen,  or  as  if  I  might  live  for 
many  years;  it  will  not  be  long  before  I  am 
gone." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  said  Maurice,  "leave 
that  out!  You  may  live  for  twenty  years  more, 
and  I  hope  you  will.  You  have  given  me  every- 
thing that  I  wanted — every  desire  that  I  had 
you've  fulfilled ;  your  death  would  give  me  noth- 
ing excepting  pain,  and  every  time  you  refer  to 
it,  you  hurt  me  a  damned  sight  more  than  you 
know.  Keep  to  me:  you  ask  me  to  go  into  the 
House;  well,  I  haven't  the  ability,  I  couldn't  do 
it  if  I  wanted  to — it's  out  of  my  line.  If  I  had 
it  in  me  to  become  a  distinguished  man,  I'd  fag 
at  anything  you  chose,  to  please  you.  Believe 
me,  it's  true!  You  ask  me  to  marry:  I  daresay 
that  to  answer  'I'm  not  a  marrying  man'  doesn't 
explain  as  much  as  it  means.  I'll  only  say  that  I 
haven't  been  home  a  year  yet;  my — my  liberty, 
with  the  means  to  enjoy  it,  is  new  to  me." 

"Your  liberty?  That  was  all  right  when  you 
were  in  town.  But  his  liberty  cannot  mean  much 
to  a  man  who  lives  as  you  live  now.  I  have  -lot 
once  heard  you  say  that  you  think  of  going  away 


THE  WORLDLINGS  113 

from  me,  and  you  have  been  here  nearly  three 
months.  The  means  to  enjoy  your  liberty,  it 
seems  to  me,  was  a  privilege  you  got  tired  of  very 
soon.  If  you  value  it  so  highly,  why  do  you 
stop?" 

"Why  do  I  stop?  Well,  why  does  everybody 
stop?  There  are  plenty  of  men  down  here  at 
the  present  time." 

"Be  frank  with  me!"  said  Sir  Noel.  "You 
can  make  me  very  happy.  You're  very  often  at 
Whichcote:  shall  I  see  you  marry  that  girl  one 
day?" 

"Good  Heavens,"  exclaimed  Maurice,  "no!" 
The  colour  sank  from  his  face,  and  the  cigar  be- 
tween his  fingers  shook. 

He  had  dealt  a  heavier  blow  than  he  under- 
stood, and  for  some  seconds  there  was  silence. 
At  last  the  other  said  simply: 

"Why?" 

"  'Why'?  There  are  a  thousand  reasons.  One 
is  enough — I  am  nothing  to  her." 

Into  the  old  man's  tones  crept  a  tinge  of  re- 
stored hope.  "But  if  she  were  willing  to  accept 
you?"  he  asked. 

"Why  consider  impossibilities?  I  tell  you  that 
I'm  nothing  to  her — nothing.  If  she  cares  for 
anyone  at  all,  it  is  for  her  cousin,  who's  always 


114  THE  WORLDLINGS 

running  down  here.  But  it's  difficult  to  say! 
After  all  he  is  her  cousin." 

"You  can  offer  a  very  fine  position,  Philip, 
and  she  is  not  a  child.  ...  If  she  were  willing  to 
accept  you?" 

"She  would  never  sell  herself  to  anybody:  you 
don't  know  her!" 

"To  sell?  You  are  not  a  Bluebeard.  And 
she  has  a  mother  to  advise  her.  You — you  can- 
not fail  to  admire  her?    You  like  her?" 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Maurice  unstead- 

iiy. 

"Then  what's  your  objection?  You  tell  me 
there  are  a  thousand  reasons,  but  I  hear  only 
one,  and  that  is  very  foolish.  She  is  not  in  love 
with  you,  you  say?  Well,  you  ought  to  know. 
But  there  are  many  marriages  made  for  other 
things  than  love;  women  marry  for  an  establish- 
ment, for  esteem;  life  is  not  a  romance.  Besides 
I  do  not  think  she  is  a  girl  to  fall  violently  In  love 
with  anyone." 

"Don't  you?"  said  Maurice.  "I  can  imagine 
her  loving  very  deeply — when  she  meets  the  right 
man.  But  the  subject's  preposterous;  I'm  as 
likely  to  be  Prime  Minister  as  to  marry  her." 

"Why,   why,  why?"  cried   Sir  Noel  angrily. 

'You  may  say  you  are  unlikely  to  marry  her 

when  you  have  proposed  and  been  rejected.  Wait 


THE  WORLDLINGS  115 

till  you  are  rejected  before  you  disappoint  me  in 
this,  too!  I  have  thought  of  it  for  a  long  time; 
I  have  not  many  hopes  in  my  life,  but  I  have 
hoped  to  see  you  with  a  son.  You — you  refuse 
everything  I  ask  you;  I  was  ambitious  for  you 
to  make  a  public  career,  and  you  refused  me. 
But  you  said  just  .now  that  you  would  do  it  if 
you  could,  and  I  believed  you  meant  it.  Well, 
I  ask  you  something  else!  There  is  nothing  to 
prevent  your  gratifying  me  in  this;  it  is  no  ter- 
rible sacrifice  to  take  such  a  woman  for  your 
wife.  You  are  a  constant  visitor;  you  have  led 
the  mother  to  think  you  have  intentions ;  will  you 
propose?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Maurice;  "don't — I  beg  you, 
sir — don't  make  a  personal  matter  of  it;  it  can't 
be  done." 

"You  are  obstinate,"  said  the  old  man,  "you 
are — you  are  very  hard.  And  you  have  behaved 
very  badly;  Lady  Wrensfordsley  will  consider 
you  have  behaved  very  badly.  Well,  she  will  be 
justified!  We  will  not  talk  about  it  any  more." 
He  tapped  the  arm  of  his  chair  rapidly,  and  rose. 
"You  have  distressed  me  cruelly.  I  am  going  to 
my  room." 

Maurice  was  still  very  pale;  to  be  left  alone 
was  a  great  relief  to  him,  though  his  thoughts 
could  take  no  agreeable  turn.     Obedience  was 


116  THE  WORLDLINGS 

beyond  him,  but  this  was  the  first  difference  that 
had  arisen  between  Sir  Noel  and  himself,  and  he 
realised  that  he  must  appear  a  dogged  fool.  Per- 
haps the  emotions  that  the  girl  woke  in  him 
caused  him  to  sympathise  with  the  disappoint- 
ment that  he  had  inflicted  more  acutely  than  he 
would  have  done  otherwise.  For  an  instant  he 
revolved  the  idea  of  paying  a  fraction  of  what 
he  owed  by  proposing  with  the  conviction  that 
the  offer  would  be  declined;  but  then  he  shrank 
from  it  as  an  insult  to  the  woman  that  he  hon- 
oured most.  Moreover,  a  single  act  of  compli- 
ance wouldn't  solve  the  difficulty:  doubtless  he 
would  be  required  later  on  to  propose  to  some 
other  woman — who  might  accept  him! 

The  assertion  that  he  had  given  Lady  Wrens- 
fordsley  cause  to  feel  aggrieved  kept  recurring 
to  him  with  dismay;  but  on  reflection  he  was  as- 
sured that  her  daughter's  manner,  even  more 
than  his  own,  must  render  it  impossible  for  her 
to  entertain  the  supposition  attributed  to  her. 
Nevertheless  he  had  been  unwise,  he  saw  that 
now — and  he  would  go  to  Whichcote  less  fre- 
quently; it  might  be  wrell  that  Sir  Noel  had 
warned  him! 

The  following  morning  he  wras  met  by  the 
Baronet  with  considerable  restraint,  and,  had  he 
been  less  conciliatory,  the  breach  between  them 


THE  WORLDLINGS  117 

would  have  widened.  As  it  was,  they  spoke  to- 
gether by  dinner-time  with  some  semblance  of 
freedom.  But  neither  on  that  day,  nor  the  next, 
was  an  opportunity  afforded  him  for  the  usual 
reading,  and  it  was  evident  to  him  that  his  ob- 
duracy had  been  taken  deeply  to  heart. 

He  began  to  think  of  returning  to  town.  As 
the  other  had  said,  there  had  been  little  to  keep 
him  here,  and  now  there  was  less  than  ever.  But 
though  he  always  meditated  leaving  on  the  mor- 
row, he  could  never  bring  himself  to  do  it. 

He  would  not  go  to  Whichcote  for  a  fortnight ; 
but  Oakenhurst  held  the  chance  of  meeting  her! 
It  was  only  now,  when  he  would  not  allow  him- 
self to  visit  her,  when  he  walked,  or  rode,  praying 
for  the  sight  of  the  familiar  livery,  and  returned 
to  the  Court  with  the  new-found  hope  that  she 
and  Lady  Wrensfordsley  might  have  called; 
when  he  accepted  an  invitation  to  one  of  the 
neighbours'  and  counted  the  moments  until  re- 
lease, because  she,  too,  was  not  there,  that  the 
full  measure  of  the  influence  that  she  had  at- 
tained upon  him  made  itself  clear.  When  a 
week  had  worn  by,  it  seemed  to  Maurice  that  he 
had  borne  the  separation  for  a  month.  The  eter- 
nal roads,  in  which  the  carriage  never  appeared, 
were  as  insufferable  as  the  house  in  which  he 
spent  hours  listening  for  the  sound  of  the  hall- 


118  THE  WORLDLINGS 

door  bell.  Imagination,  which  showed  her  +o 
him  in  a  dozen  familiar  scenes,  made  him  ache 
more  fiercely  for  her  presence.  In  moments 
luncheon  stuck  in  his  throat  while  there  flashed 
before  him  the  dining-room  at  Whichcote,  and 
he  was  seized  with  the  impulse  to  pitch  his  reso- 
lution to  the  winds;  in  others,  he  was  humiliated 
to  feel  that,  while  an  entire  week  had  passed  since 
he  had  been  there,  he  was  not  missed.  He  loved 
her;  the  truth  was  vivid,  and  he  knew  it.  He  wras 
as  far  below  her  as  the  gutter  from  the  star,  but 
he  loved  her!  Cravings  came  to  him  sometimes, 
boyish  and  wild:  cravings  for  an  opportunity  to 
prove  it  to  her;  to  break  through  her  indifference 
by  some  heroic  service;  to  die  for  her  if  necessary, 
only  that  he  might  leap  into  her  life  for  a  moment 
and  see  her  understand.  Of  all  the  complications 
that  his  fancy  had  forecast  on  the  homeward  voy- 
age, not  one  had  happened ;  he  was  stabbed  by  a 
thing  that  had  never  presented  itself  to  him 
among  the  possibilities — he  loved.  He  could  not 
blink  facts  any  more,  he  could  no  longer  juggle 
With  terms — he  loved  her  as  a  man  loves  the  wom- 
an who  holds  the  world  for  him;  and  now  that 
he  realised  it,  he  would  leave  Oakenhurst  at  once! 
It  was  no  compromise  with  duty  that  he  rode 
over  to  Whichcote  to  say  "good-bye";  he  did  not 
intend  to  see  her  again  till  he  was  master  of  him- 


T.HE  WORLDLINGS  119 

self,  and  to  have  omitted  a  leave-taking  would,  in 
the  circumstances,  have  been  flagrant  rudeness. 

The  man  told  him  that  Lady  Wrensfordsley 
was  driving,  and  when  he  learnt  in  the  .next  in- 
stant that  Helen  was  in,  his  heart  swelled  .at  the 
prospect  of  seeing  her  alone. 

There  were  no  visitors  to  disappoint  him, 
though  a  tete-a-tete  promised  him  a  happiness 
empty  enough.  She  was  arranging  some  flowers 
in  a  bowl,  and  he  took  a  seat  by  the  fire,  and 
watched  her  hands. 

"My  mother  has  gone  to  the  Saviles',"  she 
said;  "it  is  almost  time  she  was  home  now.  She 
wanted  me  to  go  too,  but  I  was  lazy.  Aren't 
these  flowers  pretty?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "very  pretty.  I  like  the  way 
you  pull  some  of  them  up  higher  than  the  rest. 
Do  they  touch  the  water  that  way?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  touch  the  water,"  she  said.  "I 
leave  the  stalks  longer  on  purpose.  Is  it  cold 
out?" 

"Yes,  no,"  he  said,  "no.  Where  are  you  going 
to  put  it  now  it's  done?" 

"On  the  bookcase,"  she  said.  She  moved  the 
bowl  carefully,  and  wiped  her  hands  on  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  sat  down.     "Well?" 

"Well,"  he  said,  "talk  to  me!" 


120  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"What  do  you  want  to  talk  about?"  she 
smiled. 

"Anything!" 

"That's  too  vague." 

"Anything  you  please.  How  long  do  you  stay 
here — till  the  Spring,  or  do  you  go  South?" 

"We  may  go  to  Cannes  for  a  few  weeks  after 
Christmas,  but  I  don't  know  that  we  shall.  We 
go  to  town  for  the  season,  of  course." 

"Do  you  look  forward  to  it?" 

"I  always  look  forward  to  amusement.  Does 
it  sound  very  frivolous  of  me?" 

"I  don't  think  you  could  be  frivolous  if  you 
tried;  you  don't  look  frivolous  even  when  you 
arrange  flowers." 

"Oh,  to  arrange  the  flowers,"  she  said,  "is  a 
solemn  duty;  you'd  say  so  if  you  saw  how  the 
servants  do  it." 

"Then,  I  suppose,"  said  Maurice,  after  a  slight 
pause,  "I  shan't  see  you  till  we  meet  in  town. 
I'm  going  away  to-morrow." 

"Are  you?"  she  said.  "I  suppose  you  won't, 
then." 

"Even  if  I  see  you  in  town." 

"Oh,  one  is  bound  to  meet  one's  friends  in  the 


season." 


"I  mayn't  be  there  in  the  season,"  he  said: 
'perhaps  I  shall  go  abroad  again  for  awhile." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  121 

"Really?    You  are  tired  of  England  already?" 

"No,  I'm  not  tired  of  it,  but  it's  best  for  me  to 
go."  He  looked  away  from  her,  calling  himself 
a  coward. 

"Where  do  you  think  of  going?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  haven't  thought  yet — some- 
where where  I  haven't  been." 

"You  should  try  India.  I  should  think  it  must 
be  immensely  fascinating — and  you  could  make 
sketches,  or  shoot  things.  Men  generally  prefer 
to  shoot  things,  don't  they?" 

"I  suppose,  on  the  whole,  it's  easier,"  he  said. 

"And  then  you  could  send  us  a  tiger-skin,  if 
the  tiger  would  let  you.  Only,  if  he  doesn't, 
please  don't  reproach  me  for  the  suggestion!" 

"Should  you  mind?"  asked  Maurice. 

"'Mind'?" 

He  found  rebuke  in  the  monosyllable. 

"I  mean  assuming  the  tragedy  with  the  tiger." 

"I  should  mind  very  much,"  she  said  calmly; 
"wouldn't  you?" 

"And  yet  there  are  worse  fates  than  an  un- 
looked-for death." 

"Worse?" 

"Far.  I  could  die  pluckily  enough,  I  think — 
death  is  such  a  short  affair.  It's  life  that  is  the 
test  of  heroes." 

"How  seriously  you  say  that!"  she  said.    "Do 


122  THE  WORLDLINGS 

you  know  you  sometimes  say  things  like  nobody 
else,  Mr.  Jardine?" 

"I  told  you  long  ago  that  I  hadn't  learnt  how 
to  talk  to  you  yet.  .  .  .  Well,  then,  I  had  better 
not  go  and  'shoot  things'?  And  if  I'm  fortunate, 
I  shall  meet  you  in  town  after  all?" 

"No  doubt,"  she  said.  "How  quickly  we're 
travelling — we  have  got  from  India  to  Mayfair 
already !    Here's  my  mother." 

Lady  Wrensfordsley  came  in  well  pleased  to 
find  that  he  was  there,  and  only  a  woman  would 
have  read  her  regret  in  her  eyes  when  his  plans 
were  made  known  to  her.  For  a  few  seconds  she 
questioned  if  they  had  been  born  of  the  interview 
that  she  had  interrupted ;  and,  deciding  that  they 
had  not,  she  was  perplexed.  Maurice,  who,  des- 
pite the  conclusion  at  which  he  had  arrived,  had 
been  sensible  of  some  slight  apprehension,  was 
entirely  relieved  by  her  manner. 

The  wrench  had  been  made.  But  the  pain  of 
it  lingered.  And  the  idea  of  going  abroad  was 
not  to  be  dismissed  from  his  mind  so  easily  as  he 
had  dismissed  the  subject  from  the  conversation. 
He  knew  perfectly  that  he  would  be  as  unwise  to 
meet  Helen  in  six  months'  time  as  to  continue 
their  meetings  now ;  and  if  he  remained  in  Eng- 
land through  the  next  season,  he  would  be  power- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  123 

less  to  resist  his  opportunities.  However,  he  had 
taken  the  right  course  and  done  all  that  was  nec- 
essary at  present.  Having  said  what  he  had  said, 
he  could  avoid  her  for  a  year  or  more  if  he  chose. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Sir  Noel  had  offered  no  opposition  to  the  pro- 
posed departure,  nor  indeed  made  any  comment 
on  it;  only  in  the  moment  of  good-bye  he  looked 
at  Maurice  wistfully.  The  appeal  was  involun- 
tary, and  Maurice  understood  it  to  be  so.  It 
came  back  to  him,  among  other  things,  as  he  sat 
alone  in  the  chambers  that  he  had  formerly  viewed 
with  elation.  He  did  not  want  to  see  anvone  vet; 
his  solitude  was  dreary  enough,  but  he  felt  that 
he  would  be  infinitely  lonelier  in  a  crowd.  He 
could  not  even  pretend  to  laugh  at  himself  as  a 
sentimentalist.  Whether  the  contingency  that 
he  had  overlooked  was  to  be  called  absurd  or  not, 
the  thought  of  Helen  dominated  him.  He  would 
have  given  up  everything  that  he  had  gained  if 
the  renunciation  would  have  placed  her  in  his 
arms.  He  did  not  for  a  second  undervalue  the 
advantages  that  he  had  won — he  was  human; 
but,  being  human,  he  found  wealth  a  poor  make- 
shift for  the  woman  he  loved.  He  had  grasped 
all  that  he  had  sought,  and  it  was  insuilicient  for 
happiness.  The  fancy  did  not  strike  him — and 
the  moral  was  imperfect — but  he  resembled  the 

124 


THE  WORLDLINGS  125 

protagonist  of  the  fantastic  who  is  accorded  his 
heart's  desire  and  whose  hasty  petition  has  omit- 
ted the  chief  essential  for  contentment. 

He  had  been  back  in  town  several  days  when 
he  did  what  was  required  of  him  by  calling  upon 
Rosa  Fleming.  He  had  received  a  note  from 
her  begging  him  to  oblige  her  with  a  loan  of  fifty 
pounds,  for  her  resolution  not  to  worry  him  for 
introductions  did  not  prevent  her  worrying  him 
for  assistance  when  she  found  her  income  inade- 
quate ;  and  he  took  the  cheque  in  his  pocket. 

"I  thought  I  was  never  going  to  see  you  any 
more,"  she  said.  "I've  missed  you  awfully.  What 
a  long  time  you  stayed  down  there!  Have  you 
enjoyed  yourself?" 

"It  wasn't  particularly  gay,"  he  answered. 
"Well,  how  have  you  been?  I've  brought  you 
what  you  want." 

"What  a  good  fellow  you  are!  I  was  sorry  to 
bother  you  again,  but  this  rent  is  always  due;  and 
then  I  had  to  go  out  of  town,  and  the  hotel  was 
very  dear — everything  seems  to  cost  more  than  it 
ought  to.  You  can  stop  what  I  owe  you  out  of 
my  next  quarter's  money,  you  know." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said ;  "don't  talk  about 
that.     Where  did  you  go?     Folkestone,  wasn't 

it?" 

"Yes ;  I  shouldn't  have  gone  away  at  all  if  you 


126  THE  WORLDLINGS 

had  come  back,  but  I  was  so  melancholy  in  Lon- 
don all  by  myself.  What  do  you  say  to  this?" 
She  laughed,  and  took  a  box  of  cigars  out  of  the 
sideboard;  "the  last  time  you  came  you  had  noth- 
ing to  smoke ;  do  you  remember  ?  You  never  need 
look  at  your  cigar-case  any  more  before  you  come 
— you're  provided  for!" 

"Thanks,"  said  Maurice;  "it's  very  kind  of 
you.    I'll  have  one  now." 

"Do!  I  think  they're  all  right;  I  used  to  know 
a  little  about  cigars.  Well,  what's  the  news?  It's 
jolly  to  see  you  again.    How's  Sir  Noel?" 

"Sir  Noel's  quite  well,"  he  replied  lamely. 

'You've  not  been  quarrelling  with  him?"  she 
.exclaimed.    "There  isn't  anything  wrong?" 

"Why  should  you  think  so?  Did  it  sound  like 
it?" 

"Tell  me!"  she  said.  "I  thought  by  your  face 
when  you  came  in  that  something  was  the  matter. 
What  is  it — anything  important?" 

Maurice  shook  his  head.  "They're  very  good, 
your  cigars.    Your  attention  is  appreciated." 

"Never  mind  my  cigars ;  I  want  to  know  what's 
troubling  you.  Is  he  talking  about  your  going 
into  Parliament  again?    Is  that  it?" 

"No,"  said  Maurice,  "that  isn't  it.  He  wants 
something  more  difficult  still." 

"Well,  then,  tell  me  all  about  it.     Who  is  to 


THE  WORLDLINGS  127 

hear  your  anxieties,  if  I  don't  ?  You're  not  afraid 
of  boring  me,  are  you?" 

"Perhaps  I  am.  Anyhow  it's  all  over;  it's  not 
worth  discussing." 

"Don't  be  unkind,"  she  said.  "I  can't  gush — 
I'm  not  made  that  way — but  your  anxieties  are 
mine  too.  I  don't  mean  your  risks ;  I  mean  what 
I  say,  your  'anxieties.'  It's  so  queer  to  me  some- 
times to  think  that  a  year  ago  we  didn't  know 
each  other  much — things  have  brought  us  very 
close  together  since.  You're  a  peg  low ;  I'm  go- 
ing to  give  you  a  drink  first  of  all,  and  then  I'll 
have  a  cigarette  with  you  and  we'll  put  our  heads 
together.  It'll  cheer  you  up  to  be  with  someone 
you  can  talk  freely  to." 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  a  parlourmaid  in  a 
frilled  cap  and  apron  brought  what  was  wanted, 
and  said  "Yes,  madam,"  and  "No,  madam,"  in  a 
hushed  voice.  The  sight  of  Rosa  with  a  parlour- 
maid retained  its  novelty  to  Maurice,  and  a  little 
amusement  crept  into  his  eyes  as  he  looked  on. 
It  was  quite  the  last  feeing  that  she  meant  her 
dignity  to  rouse  in  him. 

"So  the  old  man  has  been  making  himself  a 
nuisance?"  she  said  when  they  were  alone  again. 
"I've  often  thought  of  you  down  there  and  won- 
dered how  you  stood  it.     What  does  he  want? 


128  THE  WORLDLINGS 

Perhaps  it  isn't  so  difficult  as  it  seems — we  may 
be  able  to  get  over  it." 

Maurice  watched  a  smoke-ring  meditatively. 
After  all,  there  was  no  reason  for  reticence.  lie 
was  averse  from  speaking  Helen's  name  to  her, 
but  her  tone  warmed  him  towards  her,  and  he 
was  athirst  for  somebody  to  sympathise  with  him. 

"He  wants  me  to  marry,"  he  said. 

She  could  not  restrain  a  start. 

"To  marry?" 

"Of  course  it's   impossible,   and  my  refusal 
ruffled  him." 

"Why?"  she  said  after  a  long  pause.  "I  mean 
— I  mean,  why  did  you  refuse?" 

"Good  Heavens!"  he  cried,  "how  could  I  con- 
sent?   I'm  not  such  a  blackguard  as  that!" 

"No,"  she  said;  "no,  of  course  you  couldn't — 
I  see!  You  could  never  marry  any  woman  who 
— who  was  ignorant  of  what  you'd  done,  could 
you?    What  did  you  say?" 

"I  told  him  that  I  didn't  want  to  marry  her — 
that  I  preferred  my  freedom." 

"Pier?"  She  caught  the  pronoun  up.  "He  has 
somebody  in  his  mind,  then — he  wants  you  to 
marry  a  certain  woman?    Who  is  she?" 

"What's  the  difference?  One  woman  or  an- 
other— I  can't  marry  anybody." 

The  colour  was  leaving  her  face  rapidly.     If 


THE  WORLDLINGS  129 

he  had  not  been  seeing  Helen's,  he  would  have 
remarked  the  change. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  asked  harshly. 

"That's  about  all." 

She  began  to  laugh.  "Why  don't  you  tell  me 
the  whole  story?  Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool? 
You're  in  love  with  her !  I  thought  the  old  man's 
wish  wasn't  enough  to  break  you  up  like  that. 
You're  in  love  with  her,  eh  ?  Well," — she  strug- 
gled to  get  the  friendliness  back  into  her  man- 
ner— "well,  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  you,  old  boy, 
awfully  sorry!    It's  hard  lines." 

"It's  damned  hard  lines,"  said  the  man,  blind 
to  her  agitation. 

"She's  a  swell,  of  course?    Who  is  she?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "she's  a  'swell.'  But,  as  I  tell 
vou,  it's  all  over.  Heaven  knows  when  I  shall 
see  her  again — not  until  she's  engaged  to  some- 
body else,  I  expect.  I  suppose  we  all  make  idiots 
of  ourselves  over  a  woman  once.  This  is  my  first 
experience. 

Each  time  that  he  evaded  her  inquiry  and  with- 
held the  name,  he  stabbed  her  anew.  At  this  in- 
stant she  could  have  struck  him  for  it. 

"Poor  old  boy,"  she  repeated,  walking  about 
the  room.  "I  wonder  if  you  know  what  I'm  go- 
ing to  say?" 


130  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"You're  not  going  to  advise  me  to  marry  her?" 
he  asked. 

She  drew  her  breath  sharply.  His  every  word 
made  the  hopelessness  of  her  aim  more  apparent. 

"Don't,"  he  said,  "because  I'm  weaker  than  I 
knew!  Since  I've  been  in  town  there  have  been 
moments  when,  if  impulse  could  have  given  her 
to  me,  she'd  be  my  wife  to-night.  He  doesn't  un- 
derstand, but  you — you  know  what  I  am.  I  want 
you  to  din  it  into  me,  to  keep  telling  me  that  I'm 
a  scoundrel." 

"I'm  not  going  to  advise  you  to  marry 
her,"  she  said,  moistening  her  lips.  "You'd  be 
wretched  with  her;  you've  too  much  conscience; 
your  life'd  be  a  hell." 

"That  wouldn't  matter,"  he  said;  "it's  her  life 
I'm  thinking  of;  if  she  accepted  me,  I  might  ruin 
it.  Suppose  the  truth  came  out — somehow — 
some  day?  Oh,  I  know  it  isn't  likely  to  come  out; 
it's  almost  certain  that  it  never  will  come  out 
now;  but  if  it  did?  To  have  dragged  her  down! 
Besides,  you're  right — I  should  have  hours  of 
agony.  My  God!  if  I  had  no  other  guilt  to  an- 
swer for  than  the  sins  of  every  man  I  should  still 
feel  ashamed  when  I  touched  her  hand.  At  first 
she  was  only  strange  to  me,  I — I  was  embar- 
rassed: the  other  women  I'd  been  introduced  to 
were  forgotten.     I  felt  as  far  from  her  as  from 


THE  WORLDLINGS  131 

the  women  I  had  watched  as  they  drove  by  me 
when  I  was  shabby  and  hungry  in  the  streets. 
And  then  for  a  little  while  there  was  a  satisfac- 
tion— I  congratulated  myself.  'Money  is  even 
better  than  you  dreamed,'  I  said;  'how  it  unlocks 
the  doors!  Bravo!'  And  then  the  satisfaction 
passed  as  well.  I  suppose  I'd  begun  to  love  her, 
though  I  didn't  realise  it — and  sometimes  when 
I  met  her  eyes,  I  thought  'How  would  she  look 
at  you  if  she  knew !  Adventurer,  impostor,  if  she 
knew!'" 

"You'd  be  wretched,"  said  Rosa  again.  'You 
did  a  wise  thing  in  refusing.  If  you  made  her 
your  wife  you'd  regret  it  to  the  day  you  died. 
Oh,  I  understand,"  she  went  on  tremulously, 
"how  you  must  feel,  and  that  the  temptation 
must  be  pretty  big!  But,  take  my  word  for  it, 
if  you  gave  way  you  would  be  a  fool,  as  well  as 
a  blackguard.  You'd  suffer  remorse  all  the  time, 
you  wouldn't  be  happy  a  bit — you  aren't  the  man 
to  do  a  woman  a  wrong  and  not  trouble  about  it." 

She  longed  for  him  to  go.  Unfounded  as  her 
hope  had  been,  she  had  nursed  it  for  months,  it 
had  fastened  upon  her;  and  her  disappointment 
was  bitter,  vivid.  The  battle  between  her  judg- 
ment and  her  nature  was  wearing  her  out.  It 
would  have  relieved  her  to  beat  her  fists  on  the 
table  and  mutter  hysterical  oaths.    To  affect  to 


132  THE  WORLDLINGS 

pity  him,  without  preparation,  before  she  had  had 
time  to  steady  herself  from  the  shock,  was  an 
effort  that  could  not  last. 

She  sat  down,  and  lit  another  cigarette,  and 
sought  refuge  in  contemplative  silence.  It  was 
for  this,  then,  that  she  had  schooled  herself  to 
leave  him  in  peace — that  he  should  fall  in  love 
with  another  woman  in  the  meanwhile,  and  come 
to  tell  her  of  it! 

"I  shall  expect  to  see  you  often  now  you're 
back,"  she  said  heroically,  after  a  long  silence; 
"I  must  help  you  to  get  over  this  facer." 

"You're  very  good,"  said  Maurice,  "but  I  don't 
think  we'll  say  any  more  about  it;  I  mean  to  for- 
get. I'll  come  to  see  you,  but  we'll  talk  about 
•everything  except " 

"Except  what  you'll  be  thinking  of!" 

"Except  what  I  haven't  the  right  to  think  of." 

"Are  you  at  your  rooms?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "why?" 

"Only  that  if  you've  got  a  photograph  of  her 
there,  I'd  like  to  see  it.  Or  do  you  carry  it  in 
your  pocket?" 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  said,  with  sur- 
prise. "The  attachment  is  all  on  one  side,  I 
haven't  her  photograph  anywhere.  Good  Lord, 
did  you  think  she  cared  for  me?  I  am  nothing 
to  her  aX  all!" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  133 

"You  might  have  stolen  a  photograph,'"'  she 
answered ;  his  statement  did  not  console  her  in  the 
least.  The  momentous  question  was,  not  whether 
he  was  loved,  but  whether  he  would  propose.  In- 
deed, that  his  devotion  was  not  reciprocated 
heightened  the  peril ;  a  woman  looked  her  best  to 
a  man  while  he  was  pursuing  her — like  a  butter- 
fly to  a  boy ;  capture  brushed  the  bloom  off  them 
both. 

He  went  at  last,  and  he  cast  the  shackles  from 
her.  By  degrees  the  luxury  of  unrestricted  ac- 
tion caused  her  pluck  to  revive.  After  all,  she 
had  good  cards.  His  scruples,  which  she  would 
take  care  to  keep  alive,  were  her  four  to  a  flush ; 
and  since  he  would  feel  debarred  from  marriage 
with  other  women  as  well,  time  should  deal  her 
the  ace.  The  pool  might  be  long  in  coming, 
longer  than  she  had  promised  herself,  but  surely 
she  was  justified,  even  now,  in  hoping  that  she 
would  win  in  the  end  ?  He  might  not  fall  to  her 
from  sentiment,  nor  from  passion;  but  only  to 
herself  could  he  ever  utter  what  was  in  his  mind 
— and  habit  was  a  force,  too.  Her  reflections  en- 
couraged her. 

She  had  some  slight  expectation  of  seeing  him 
after  dinner  on  the  morrow,  and  she  held  herself 
well  in  hand;  but  the  evening  passed  while  she 
waited  to  hear  the  bell  ring.     On  the  next,  she 


134.  THE  WORLDLINGS 

was  more  confident;  she  even  put  the  cigar-box 
on  the  table  in  readiness  for  him.  She  put  the 
cigar-box  on  the  table  for  three  evenings  in  suc- 
cession. 

Her  fears  began  to  reassert  themselves;  and  on 
the  fifth  morning  after  his  visit  she  telegraphed 
to  Bury  Street,  begging  him  to  lunch  with  her. 

She  had  mentioned  two  o'clock  in  the  telegram, 
and  at  half-past  two  she  sat  down  to  lunch  alone. 
She  was  now  exceedingly  anxious,  and,  though 
she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  Maurice  had 
just  gone  out  when  her  message  arrived,  she  re- 
gretted that  she  had  not  sent  a  note  by  the  par- 
lourmaid, who  could  have  inquired  whether  he 
had  left  town. 

As  the  day  wore  on  and  no  word  from  him 
reached  her,  she  entertained  the  idea  of  driving 
to  his  rooms.  But  she  was  deterred  by  the 
thought  that  he  might  call  at  any  moment.  For 
the  same  reason  she  hesitated  to  leave  the  house 
after  nightfall.  It  was  only  when  eleven  o'clock 
struck  that  she  gave  up  all  hope  of  his  coming; 
and  now  she  decided  to  end  her  suspense  before 
she  slept. 

In  the  hansom,  she  was  mastered  by  the  con- 
viction that  the  worst  had  happened — that  he 
had  returned  to  Oakenhurst.    Her  relief  was  in- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  135 

tense  when  she  heard  that  he  was  at  home,  and 
alone. 

She  was  kept  waiting  only  a  minute,  and  she 
found  him  with  his  gloves  on;  his  hat  and  stick 
lay  on  the  table. 

"You're  a  beauty!"  she  said;  "I've  been  fright- 
ened out  of  my  life  about  you!" 

"I  just  came  in,  and  got  your  wire,"  he  ex- 
plained; "I'm  awfully  sorry.  I've  been  out  all 
day." 

"And  the  other  days?"  said  she.  "I  thought 
you  were  coming  to  see  me  again  soon?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  shouldn't  have 
been  good  company,  so  I  stayed  away.  What 
did  you  come  round  so  late  for — what  did  you 
suppose  was  the  matter?" 

"Your  welcome  is — is  very  warm,"  she  smiled. 
"I  tell  you  I  was  anxious,  I  didn't  know  what 
might  be  the  matter;  I  was  afraid  you  were  laid 
up.  I'll  sit  down,  if  you  ask  me,  and  have  a 
drink  now  I'm  here." 

"You  had  better  loosen  your  things,"  he  said, 
"or  you'll  take  cold  when  you  go  out." 

He  wheeled  a  chair  to  the  hearth  as  he  spoke, 
and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  cigarettes. 
As  he  produced  the  tantalus,  another  telegram 
was  brought  in  to  him,  and  she  understood  before 
he  passed  it  to  her  that  it  came  from  Surrey. 


136  THE  WORLDLINGS 

She  fixed  him  with  eager  eyes.  "What?"  she 
murmured. 

"Sir  Noel  is  ill,"  stammered  Maurice;  "he 
wants  me  back!" 

"Back?"  Her  thoughts  span.  The  dread  of 
marriage,  and  the  hope  of  death  eddied  in  her 
mind  confusingly. 

Maurice  turned  to  the  man.    "Call  a  cab,"  he 
said;  and  then  glancing  at  the  clock,  "No,  stop!" 
he  added,  "it's  no  use — I  can't  go  till  the  morn- 
ing.    Is  the  boy  waiting?" 
1  es,  sir. 

He  pencilled  a  reply,  promising  to  return  by 
the  earliest  train.  When  the  answer  was  dis- 
patched, there  was  no  more  to  be  done.  He  re- 
read the  message:  "111  in  bed.  Would  like  to  see 
you.  Consultation  yesterday.  Come  as  soon  as 
possible." 

Rosa  and  he  looked  at  each  other  intently. 

"He  wants  me  back,"  he  repeated;  "I'm  bound 
to  go!" 

She  couldn't  dispute  it — there  was  no  alter- 
native— circumstances  were  too  strong  for  them 
both.  She  was  about  to  say  that  perhaps  he 
would  not  be  detained  long,  when  there  was  a 
second  interruption.  Somebody  knocked  at  the 
door  and  opened  it  simultaneously,  and  a  man 
strode  in  who  was  evidently  familiar  there.    He 


THE  WORLDLINGS  137 

did  not  see  Rosa  until  he  was  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  and  then  he  started,  with  a  quick 
apology. 

"I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons,  Jardine! 
I  was  outside  when  you  drove  up ;  I  thought  you 
were  alone." 

"It's — it's  all  right,"  said  Maurice.  "How  are 
you?  Let  me  present  you  to  Mrs.  Fleming. 
Captain  Boulger — Mrs.  Fleming." 

"I  have  just  brought  Mr.  Jardine  bad  news," 
said  Rosa,  recovering  herself.  "Sir  Noel  is  very 
ill." 


CHAPTER  X 

Fred  Boulger  soon  invented  an  excuse  to 
withdraw,  but  Rosa's  leave-taking  had  to  be  made 
at  the  same  time,  and  she  could  say  no  more  in 
going  than  "You'll  be  sure  to  let  me  know  how 
you  find  your  father  on  your  arrival?"  She 
threw  all  the  significance  that  she  could  into  the 
request,  but  she  was  incensed,  not  only  by  the 
interruption,  but  by  the  consciousness  that  a  false 
impression  might  easily  have  been  excited  in  the 
intruder's  mind,  although  Maurice  had  done  his 
best  to  avert  it  by  introducing  her.  As  for 
Maurice  himself,  he  was  engrossed  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  was  returning  to  the  Court  and  that, 
whether  he  wished  it  or  not,  he  must  speedily 
meet  Helen  again. 

When  he  reached  the  house  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, he  learnt  that  the  old  man  had  been  attacked 
by  pneumonia. 

"Sir  Noel  was  took  ill  the  day  after  'e  called 
at  Whichcote,  sir,"  said  Cope.  "Sir  Noel  drove 
over  to  her  ladyship's  on  Thursday  afternoon, 
and   Dr.    Sanders   considers   that   'e   must    'ave 

138 


T.HE  WORLDLINGS  139 

caught  a  chill,  sir,  though  the  day  was  quite  mild 
and  pleasant  for  the  time  of  the  year." 

"What  physician  has  been  down?  What  did 
he  say?"  asked  Maurice  rapidly. 

"Sir  David  Parry,  sir;  'e  'ad  hopes,  strong 
hopes.  I  understood  from  the  night-nurse  just 
now,  sir,  that  Sir  Noel  'ad  passed  a  good  night, 
and  was  still  asleep." 

Nearly  half  an  hour  went  by  before  a  message 
came  that  the  Baronet  was  awake,  and  then 
Maurice  went  upstairs  at  once.  The  nurse  walked 
out  of  the  room  with  a  rustle  of  the  stiff  skirts 
that  nurses  should  not  be  allowed  to  wear,  and 
he  noted  that  while  she  had  been  drilled  to  deft 
hands,  the  training  had  not  been  extended  to  her 
noisy  feet. 

"This  is  a  bad  business,  governor,"  he  said. 
"But  they  tell  me  you're  soon  going  to  be  about 
again,  eh?" 

Sir  Noel  nodded  weakly;  the  smile  that  had 
lightened  his  face  at  Maurice's  entrance  Tiad 
faded  and  left  him  very  wan.  In  the  big  bed  he 
seemed  to  have  aged  and  shrunk. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said;  "perhaps.  I  don't  know." 
He  spoke  with  great  difficulty,  and  made  fre- 
quent pauses.  "It  is  good  of  you  to  come  so 
quickly;  I  have  been  thinking  about  you  all  the 


140  THE  WORLDLINGS 

time.  .  .  .  We  were  not  good  friends  when  you 
went  away;  I  have  regretted  it  very  much." 

"My  fault,"  said  Maurice;  "my  fault,  every 
bit  of  it — it's  for  mc  to  regret.  Don't  grieve  any 
more  about  that,  governor.  Why  didn't  you 
wire  me  before?" 

"I  did  not  want  to  bother  you.  .  .  .  You  were 
amusing  yourself  in  town  when  I  dragged  you 
awav  ? 

"Not  a  scrap.  I'd  have  come  last  night,  only 
there  was  no  train." 

"I  wired  very  late,  I  know.  I  tell  you,  I  have 
been  thinking  about  you  all  the  time,  last  night 
especially  .  .  .  and  the  nurse  came  in  and  asked 
if  there  was  anything  I  wanted.  Did  you  notice 
the  nurse?  I  like  her;  she  is  very  attentive;  so 
is  the  day-nurse — the  day-nurse  reads  very  well. 
.  .  .  You'd  be  surprised  what  patients  she  has 
had;  she  is  quite  a  young  woman,  but  what  she 
has  been  through!  I  must  tell  you  some  day  of 
her  morphia-habit  case — extraordinary!  .  .  . 
Well,  well,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  What 
was  I  going  to  say?  •  .  •  Yes!  She  came  m  and 
asked  if  there  was  anything  I  wanted ;  and  I  said 
I  wanted  a  telegraph-form,  and  she  sent  it  at 
once.  You'll  stop,  Philip,  now  that  you  are 
here?"    He  broke  off,  coughing. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Maurice,  "I'll  stop. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  '  141 

What  did  you  go  driving  in  the  cold  for?    Why 
didn't  you  take  better  care  of  yourself?" 

Sir  Noel  sighed. 

"Ah,  it  was  not  the  drive,"  he  answered;  "the 
doctors  don't  know.  They  said  that,  with  my 
bronchitis,  either  exposure  to  cold,  or  worry, 
might  be  the  cause.  I  told  them  I  was  not  wor- 
ried ...  so  they  put  it  down  to  the  drive;  but 
— but  your  refusal  hurt  me  a  good  deal.  .  .  . 
However,  it  can't  be  helped ;  I  must  put  up  with 
it."  His  voice  had  grown  fainter.  "Now  leave 
me,"  he  added;  "you  will  come  back  presently;  I 
am  tired." 

The  unexpected  reply  gave  Maurice  a  disquiet- 
ing sense  of  responsibility.  If  the  illness  was 
indeed  attributable  to  his  determination  to  do 
right,  he  felt  that  he  had  received  a  poor  reward 
for  his  effort.  While  he  breakfasted,  the  hope 
rose  that  the  invalid  had  exaggerated — that  he 
had  adapted  the  medical  opinion  to  his  require- 
ments; but  when  the  local  practitioner  paid  his 
visit  the  idea  was  banished. 

"Sir  Noel  is  suffering  from  patchy  pneu- 
monia," said  Dr.  Sanders.  "He's  better  than  he 
was,  oh  yes!  But  there's  a  good  deal  of  it  creep- 
ing about  the  left  lung  still,  and  the  condition's 
very  dangerous,  especially  late  in  life." 


142  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"What,"  Maurice  asked,  "do  you  think  it  is 
due  to?    The  drive?" 

Dr.  Sanders  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Possibly — though  Thursday  wasn't  a  day  I 
should  have  thought  could  hurt  your  father.  Of 
course  in  Sir  Noel's  normal  state  of  health, 
anxiety'd  explain  it  too — his  liver  isn't  what  it 
might  be,  you  know,  and  there's  the  bronchial 
trouble  besides.  Anxiety'd  certainly  explain  it, 
but  he  tells  me  he  hasn't  had  any.  Still,  he's 
going  on  very  nicely,  Mr.  Jardine.    With  care — 

with  care,  and  an  even  temperature "  He  had 

said  all  he  knew,  and  it  was  plain  that  further 
questioning  would  result  only  in  his  repeating 
himself. 

By-and-by  Maurice  went  to  the  bedside  again, 
but  his  presence  there  was  not  desirable  fre- 
quently, nor  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  at  a 
time.  The  hours  were  long,  and  the  corrobora- 
tion of  the  old  man's  statement  harassed  him. 
The  illness  was  his  fault— or,  if  not  his  "fault," 
at  least  his  doing!  The  fact  disturbed  him  more 
because  he  could  not  make  amends  for  it  and  he 
foresaw  that  he  would  be  asked  to  do  so,  and 
that  his  second  refusal  would  appear  more  un- 
gracious than  his  first.  He  learnt  that  Lady 
Wrensfordslev  had  either  called,  or  sent  a  ser- 
vant  with  an  inquiry  every  day,  and  he  won- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  143 

dered  whether  she  would  call  this  afternoon. 
About  four  o'clock,  when  he  was  told  that  she 
and  Helen  were  in  the  cedar  drawing-room,  he 
could  not  for  a  moment  affect  to  believe  that  he 
was  sorry. 

"We  couldn't  go  away  without  seeing  you 
when  we  heard  you  were  here,"  she  said.  "We 
can't  stop,  but  servants'  answers  are  always  so 
unsatisfactory.    How  is  Sir  Noel  going  on?" 

"He's  better,  so  the  doctor  says.  He  had  a 
good  night.  It  was  immensely  good  of  you  to 
come  in!  And  all  your  messages — I  want  to 
thank  you  for  them,  too." 

"We  feel  very  guilty,"  remarked  the  girl;  "it 
was  in  driving  to  us  that  he  took  a  chill,  wasn't 
it?  The  news  must  have  been  a  great  shock  to 
you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice;  "my  father  is  just  well 
enough  to  be  reproached,  and  I've  been  telling 
him  how  badly  he  behaved  in  not  letting  me  know 
before."  He  turned  to  Lady  Wrensfordsley. 
"Do  please  stay  a  little,"  he  begged;  "it'd  be 
charitable  of  you!" 

They  remained  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
She  hoped  that  he  would  go  over  to  them  as  soon 
as  it  was  practicable  for  him  to  seek  a  little 
change.  There  was  tea;  there  was  the  reference 
to  the  subversion  of  his  plans,  and  the  inevitable 


144  THE  WORLDLINGS 

expression  of  regret  that  they  should  have  been 
frustrated  by  circumstances  so  serious.  He  held 
Helen's  hand  again  for  an  instant.  And  the  sun 
sank. 

For  a  week,  while  Sir  Noel's  health  slowly  im- 
proved, he  saw  her  no  more.  Then  he  called  at 
Whicheote.  There  had  been  nothing  to  prevent 
his  going  sooner,  but  he  had  sworn  that  he 
wouldn't  go.  The  step  made,  however,  he  took 
no  further  oath,  but  went  often.  He  was  likelv 
to  be  kept  at  Oakenhurst  for  a  couple  of  months, 
and  he  told  himself  that  he  could  not  repay  Lady 
Wrensfordsley's  friendliness  with  incivility. 
Every  day  his  longings  crept  closer  to  the  edge  of 
his  resistance.  Thoughts  came  which  he  no 
longer  strove  to  put  away  from  him.  He  began 
to  wonder  if  it  was  true  that  he  would  be  ac- 
cepted if  he  proposed.  He  did  not  intend  to  pro- 
pose, but  there  was  no  harm  in  supposition — or 
he  said  that  there  wasn't — and  to  imagine  him- 
self Helen's  husband  made  his  brain  swim.  Some- 
times he  questioned  if  he  had  magnified  the  im- 
possibility of  an  offer.  He  had  surely  passed 
his  danger?  It  was  scarcely  conceivable  that  ex- 
posure could  befall  him  now.  Only  one  person 
was  in  the  secret,  and  apart  from  their  comrade- 
ship, her  tongue  was  tied  by  the  strongest  of  all 
interests;  to  betray  him  would  be  to  lose  her  own 


THE  WORLDLINGS  145 

income,  and  to  render  herself  liable  to  prosecu- 
tion. He  was  justified  in  believing  that  to  count 
Rosa  Fleming  among  the  obstacles  was  to  create 
a  bogey.  What  then?  The  arrival  on  the  scene 
of  someone  who  had  been  intimate  with  Jardine 
abroad?  The  likeness  and  the  circumstances 
would  withstand  a  stronger  assault.  His  con- 
science? Yes,  his  conscience  was  to  be  reckoned 
with,  but  it  wouldn't  injure  Helen;  shame  or  no 
shame,  she  would  see  only  the  obvious,  and  oc- 
casionally he  felt  that  for  the  joy  of  moments 
with  her  he  was  prepared  to  pay  any  price  that 
came  out  of  his  own  pocket.  He  was  never  so 
near  the  brink  as  when  he  found  Mr.  Seymour 
at  the  house,  for  then  his  doubt  whether  he  could 
win  her  if  he  tried  was  fiercest,  and  his  moribund 
strength  had  to  contend  not  only  with  love,  but 
with  jealousy. 

These  were  not  the  only  minatory  circum- 
stances. His  apprehensions  had  not  misled  him : 
Sir  Noel  had  speedily  revived  the  subject  of  his 
desire.  His  initial  venture  had  been  tentative 
enough — a  half -veiled  lament;  but  the  next  time 
he  spoke  more  plainly.  He  was  an  old  man,  with 
but  one  wish — why  was  Maurice  so  obdurate? 
Did  he  dislike  her?  To  reply  that  he  did  dislike 
her  Maurice  felt  would  be  ludicrous,  and  he  sim- 
ply repeated  that  he  did  not  want  to  marry.  Such 


146  THE  WORLDLINGS 

an  answer  could  avail  him  nothing.  The  other's 
appeal  gained  in  force;  he  was  ill — it  was  "his 
son's  attitude"  that  had  made  him  ill;  he  had  de- 
served better  treatment  at  his  hands!  The  situa- 
tion was  not  without  pathos ;  it  gave  to  the  invalid 
an  advantage  which  was  pressed  to  the  fullest  ex- 
tent, and  the  man  who  was  battling  with  his  weak- 
ness had  to  listen  to  daily  denunciations  of  his  ob- 
duracy.  At  Whichcote,  and  at  home,  he  was 
constantly  tempted;  even  his  solitude  became 
vivid  temptation.  When  November  had  passed, 
he  had  succumbed  mentally  more  than  once. 

Meanwhile  the  frequency  of  Seymour's  visits 
had  grown  no  less  irritating  to  Lady  Wrens- 
fordsley,  and  one  afternoon,  when  she  and  her 
daughter  were  alone  together,  she  said: 

"I  am  distressed  at  something  I  have  heard 
about  Bobbie.  I  don't  like  the  way  he  is  going 
on  in  town.  We  aren't  supposed  to  know  any- 
thing about  it,  of  course,  but  I'm  afraid  he  is  the 
reverse  of  steady." 

"So  many  men  are  extravagant,  mother,"  said 
Helen,  stooping  over  Pip. 

"Bobbie's  position  doesn't  warrant  extrava- 
gance; and  there  is  no  probability  that  it  will 
ever  improve.  I  have  the  weakness  to  be  very 
fond  of  him,  but  between  ourselves,  I  admire  few 
people  less.    I  know  his  type  so  well;  he  is  very 


THE  WORLDLINGS  147 

selfish,  and  will  get  himself  into  difficulties  with 
the  utmost  cheerfulness  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
Lady  Savile  tells  me  that  he  gambles  shock- 
ingly." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  information  had  not 
affected  her  so  much  as  it  would  have  done  if  it 
had  come  from  any  other  source.  She  knew  that 
Lady  Savile  had  been  unremitting  in  her  in- 
quiries at  the  Court  since  Maurice's  return,  and 
his  allegiance  to  Whichcote  must  have  damped 
the  fair  Agatha's  hope  considerably  since  the 
afternoon  that  she  had  monopolised  him  in  Chapel 
Street;  a  little  bitterness,  a  maternal  alacrity  to 
exaggerate  unwelcome  news,  was  to  be  expected. 
But  she  had  been  meaning  to  discuss  her  nephew 
with  the  girl  for  some  time. 

"Bobbie  and  I  have  always  been  great  friends," 
murmured  Helen.  Her  tone  said:  "Please  don't 
run  him  down  to  me;  it  hurts!"  and  Lady  Wrens- 
fordsley  understood  it. 

"Friends,"  she  replied,  "oh  yes;  you  have  a 
cousinly  regard  for  him.  There's  nothing  more 
than  that  between  you,  I'm  sure?" 

"And  if  there  were?"  said  Helen,  still  play- 
ing with  the  dog. 

"I  should  lose  my  very  high  opinion  of  your 
good  sense,  darling,  and  think  less  of  Bobbie  still. 
But  you  are  only  in  fun?" 


148  THE  WORLDLINGS 

There  was  a  short  silence,  in  which  Lady 
Wrensfordsley's  misgivings  mounted  rapidly. 

"Helen?"  she  exclaimed;  "Helen,  you  weren't 
serious?    Why  don't  you  answer  me?" 

"Bobbie  has  never  asked  me  to  marry  him," 
said  the  girl,  "if — if  that  is  what  you  want  to 
know.    If  he  did,  perhaps " 

"If  he  did,  perhaps  what?" 

"If  he  did You're  my  mother;  I  may  own 

it  to  you!" 

"My  dear  child!"  said  Lady  Wrensfordsley. 
"Yes,  I  am  your  mother,  and  you  know  how  much 
you  are  to  me.  I  hadn't  a  suspicion  that  it  was 
so  bad;  I  thought — I  was  afraid  of  a  flirtation. 
Oh,  Helen,  I  blame  myself  awfully;  I'm  so 
sorry !" 

"It's  nothing  to  be  proud  of,  is  it,  to  feel  like 
that  about  a  man  who  hasn't  asked  you!  I'm 
ashamed  of  having  said  it.     Am  I  horrid?" 

"Not  horrid,  dear — a  little  foolish,  that's  all; 
for  it  can  never  come  to  anything." 

Yrou  don't  want  me  to  marry  for  position, 
mother?" 

"No,  I  only  want  you  to  be  happy.  But  you 
wouldn't  be  happy  with  Bobbie,  even  if  I  paid  his 
debts  and  let  him  take  you.  You're  not  the 
woman  to  respect  a  husband  who  owed  you  every- 
thing." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  149 

"He  would  go  into  the  House.  I  should  make 
him  ambitious,  and  he  would  succeed  in  politics 
if  I  were  his  wife." 

"He  would  succeed  in  nothing  with  a  compara- 
tively wealthy  wife ;  he  would  be  content  with  the 
success  he  had  achieved.  The  man  who  would 
be  of  service  to  the  country  is  Mr.  Jardine — he 
has  ideas." 

"Mr.  Jardine?  Mr.  Jardine  is  half  a  radical, 
and  the  other  half  a  bore." 

"Because  he  is  attracted  by  you  and  Bobbie 
doesn't  care  for  him?"  said  Lady  Wrensfordsley 
more  bluntly  than  was  her  habit. 

"Is  he  attracted  by  me?  I'm  sure  I  never 
think  about  it." 

"You  know  very  well  he  is  attracted  by  you; 
and  I  should  be  glad  if  you  did  think  about  it — 
I  like  him." 

Helen  looked  at  her,  and  gave  a  little  mirthless 
laugh. 

"What  a  long  way  round  you  take,  mother — ■ 
even  with  me!" 

"He's  an  excellent  fellow,  dearest,"  said  Lady 
Wrensfordsley,  "and  you  would  never  have  any 
occasion  to  regret  it,  I'm  convinced."  Her  mind 
was  less  easy  than  her  manner,  but  tact  told  her 
that  to  say  any  more  would  be  a  mistake. 

The  girl  was  relieved  that  the  discussion  was 


150  THE  WORLDLINGS 

allowed  to  drop.  She  was  angry  with  herself 
for  her  confession.  It  had  been  premature,  an 
impulse;  it  was  a  thing  that  she  felt  it  would 
humiliate  her  to  remember.  But  she  had  been 
wounded  by  the  disparagement  of  Seymour,  and 
her  loyalty  had  sought  to  check  it.  In  her  heart 
she  had  known  for  some  time  that  he  was  more 
to  her  than  their  relationship  explained ;  whether 
she  actually  loved  him  was  a  question  that  she 
had  not  permitted  herself  to  face — and  that  she 
was  able  to  avoid  it,  in  truth  supplied  the  answer 
— but,  at  least,  she  had  a  sentiment  for  him  that 
no  other  man  had  stirred  in  her.  She  wondered 
again  if  the  cousin  who  was  called  selfish  and 
weak  had,  where  she  was  concerned,  been  stronger 
than  most  men,  because  he  wasn't  a  match  for 
her.  Perhaps  that  she  had  to  wonder  was  her  own 
fault,  she  reflected ;  she  had  so  dreaded  to  cheapen 
herself  that  she  might  have  repulsed  him  uncon- 
sciously. 

She  was  crediting  him  with  a  heroism  that  he 
was  far  from  possessing,  for  Mr.  Seymour's 
demeanour  had  not  been  less  serious  than  his 
feelings.  To  say  that  he  was  not  fascinated  by 
her,  or  that  the  idea  of  telling  her  that  he  loved 
her  had  never  presented  itself  to  him  would  be 
false;  but  it  delighted  him  to  avow  a  passion  for 
any   pretty   woman.      To   be   keenly   miserable 


THE  WORLDLINGS  151 

about  a  woman  for  a  week  was  one  of  his  greatest 
joys.  And  he  preferred  his  divinities  married; 
the  thought  of  double  harness  made  him  restive. 
Besides,  cut  bono?  His  aunt  would  have  a  fit  if 
Helen  accepted  him,  and  mothers'  fits  told  in  the 
end ;  the  luxury  of  a  love-scene  wasn't  worth  the 
reproaches  that  would  be  levelled  at  him.  No, 
he  couldn't  afford  it;  Aunt  Sophy  was  too  use- 
ful to  be  offended  by  a  folly  that  she  would  never 
forgive ! 

At  no  time  had  he  had  more  cause  to  be  thank- 
ful for  not  having  committed  himself  to  the 
blunder  of  a  declaration  than  he  had  a  week  or 
so  after  the  conversation  about  him  took  place. 
Lady  Savile's  report  had  been  true  enough,  and 
now  he  had  given  an  I.O.U.  for  over  two  hun- 
dred and  twenty  pounds,  across  a  whist-table  at 
the  Turf  Club.  It  was  no  more  possible  for  him 
to  find  the  money  without  Lady  Wrensfordsley's 
help  than  to  find  thousands,  and  it  had  been  nec- 
essary for  him  to  send  the  cheque.  Fortunately 
it  was  on  a  Thursday  that  he  had  lost  the  money, 
and  he  had  not  posted  the  cheque  until  the  next 
afternoon,  assuring  himself  of  two  clear  days  be- 
fore it  could  be  presented.    But  he  felt  very  ill. 

He  went  down  to  Whichcote  pale  and  nervous. 
If  she  refused  to  enable  him  to  make  things  right 
as  soon  as  the  bank  opened,  he  would  be  dis- 


152  THE  WORLDLINGS 

graced;  and  the  sermon  that  had  accompanied 
her  latest  loan  to  him  recurred  discouragingly. 
He  hoped  that  there  would  be  a  favourable  op- 
portunity for  his  appeal — in  these  matters  the 
right  moment  meant  so  much — but  later  than  the 
morrow  he  could  not  wait,  and  at  the  thought  of 
having  to  blurt  out  his  errand  like  a  schoolboy 
he  trembled.  On  consideration  he  decided  that 
"while  he  was  about  it  he  might  just  as  well  say 
he  owed  two  hundred  and  fifty.  That  would 
put  a  pony  and  more  in  his  pocket!" 

The  opportunity  did  not  occur  till  the  next 
morning;  indeed  he  could  not  feel  that  it  had 
occurred  then,  but  between  breakfast  and  church- 
time,  while  Helen  was  dressing,  he  found  his 
aunt  alone,  which  was  at  least  better  than  having 
to  beg  for  an  interview. 

"Am  I  interrupting  you  ?"  he  asked.  She  was 
writing  at  her  desk. 

"Not  in  the  least.  There  are  one  or  two  notes 
I  must  answer,  that's  all.  What  a  nuisance  a 
Sunday  post  is!" 

"Most  posts  are!"  he  said.  "There's  a  lack  of 
variety  about  the  letters  one  gets;  they  always 
begin,  'Sir,  I  am  surprised' — creditors  never  seem 
to  outgrow  the  capability  for  surprise." 

"Oh?"  she  murmured. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  153 

"Only  some  debts  are  more  terrible  than 
others." 

"To  be  sure,"  she  said;  "of  course.  The  Ob- 
server is  there,  if  you'd  like  to  look  at  it." 

He  did  not  want  to  look  at  it;  he  sat  down, 
and  ruffled  it  impatiently,  and  put  it  aside,  and 
got  up  again. 

"By-the-by,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about 

— about  a  debt  of  mine.    I'm  ashamed  to  say 

But  I  am  interrupting  you,  I  see!" 

"Just  a  moment!  What  day  does  the  20th  fall 
on,  do  you  know?" 

"No,  I  don't  know." 

"Never  mind.  .  .  .  Now,  my  dear  boy,  I  am 
quite  at  your  service.  Go  on;  you  wanted  to 
speak  to  me,  you  said?" 

"Well,  to  be  frank,  I'm  in  a  deuce  of  a  mess. 
It  sticks  in  my  throat  to  acknowledge  it,  but  I've 
had  a  facer.  I  hoped  I  should  be  able  to  pull 
through,  and  I  haven't  pulled  through — I've  got 
deeper.  Now  I  don't  know  where  to  turn.  I'm 
absolutely  to  blame,  of  course — a  gambler  and  an 
idiot — and  I  don't  attempt  to  make  excuses  for 
myself ;  but  the  fact  remains  that  I  feel  like  put- 
ting a  bullet  through  my  head,  and  that  if  I  can't 
meet  a  cheque  by  ten  o'clock  to-morrow,  it  would 
be  about  the  best  thing  for  me." 


154  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"What's  the  amount?"  asked  Lady  Wrens- 
fordsley,  coldly. 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty.  If  I  could  only  get 
clear  this  time,  I'd " 

"Make  some  more  good  resolutions?  My  dear 
Bobhie,  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  is  a  large 
sum,  and  you  forget  how  often  I've  heard  this 
sort  of  talk.  I'm  not  a  rich  woman.  I  am  very 
sorry  for  you,  but "  She  shook  her  head. 

"I'd  make  them  and  keep  them,"  he  put  in 
eagerly.  "I  would,  I  swear  it!  It's  a  tremend- 
ous favour,  of  course,  but  it  means  that  I'm  ask- 
ing you  to  save  me  from  ruin.  If  you'd  lend  me 
what  I  want  this  once,  I'd — well,  there's  noth- 
ing I  wouldn't  do  for  you,  Aunt  Sophy!  I'd  be 
grateful  to  you  as  long  as  I  lived!" 

She  looked  beyond  him  thoughtfully,  toying 
with  one  of  the  rings  on  her  fingers. 

"There  are  not  many  people  I  should  feel  in- 
clined to  help  in  such  a  fashion,"  she  said  at  last. 
"But  I'm  foolish  enough  to  be  fond  of  you,  as  it 
happens;  indeed,  after  Helen,  I  am  fonder  of 
you  than  of  anvone  I  know." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so." 

"It's  certainly  saying  a  good  deal,  for  Helen 
is  quite  all  I  have  to  live  for." 

He  mumbled  deprecation. 

'You  need  not  be  polite — it  is  the  truth.    Al- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  155 

most  the  only  thing  I  look  forward  to  in  life  is 
to  see  her  desirably  settled." 

"There'll  be  no  difficulty  about  that,  I  should 
imagine,"  said  Seymour,  as  yet  a  little  uncertain 
of  her  trend. 

"You  think  not,  eh?" 

"Helen  is  too  charming  not  to  be  able  to  marry 
as  she  pleases." 

"Yes,  but  I  want  her  to  please  me,  too.  Do 
you  know  I  have  sometimes  feared  that  there  was 
a  silly  flirtation  between  yourself  and  her,  Bob- 
bie?" 

"Between  us?"  he  cried,  now  following  her  per- 
fectly. 

"It  would  be  too  unkind  of  you  if  it  were  so! 
You  know  that  it  could  lead  to  nothing ;  I  should 
blame  you  very  much." 

"I  should  blame  myself!"  he  laughed.  "My 
position  wrould  hardly  justify  me  in  proposing  to 
her!" 

"Well,  no,"  she  said,  smiling  too.  "As  a  man 
of  the  world,  you  see  it,  of  course.  You're  a 
dear  boy,  but  not  eligible." 

He  admitted  it  again,  cheerfully.  Things  had 
taken  a  promising  turn;  he  wished  that  he  had 
made  the  sum  three  hundred. 

"But  Helen,  a  young  girl,  might  mistake  your 
attentions  for  something  serious;  and  other  peo- 


156  THE  WORLDLINGS 

pie — other  men — might  be  misled  also.  Lady 
Savile  as  good  as  asked  me  if  you  were  engaged 
to  her;  that  kind  of  thing  is  very — very  detri- 
mental. It  wouldn't  be  nice  of  you,  Bobbie,  es- 
pecially at  a  time  when  I  am  willing  to  come  to 
your  rescue,  to  stand  in  your  cousin's  light." 

Seymour  drew  a  deep  breath  before  he  an- 
swered. "My  dear  Aunt  Sophy,  I  should  be  im- 
mensely sorry!"  he  said.  "As  a  matter  of  fact, 
after  I  go  back  this  afternoon  I'm  afraid  it  will 
be  some  little  time  before  I  see  either  of  you 
again,  because  I  can't  come  down  at  Christmas 
after  all.  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  stand  in  her  light 
if  I  were  fool  enough  to  want  to  do  such  a  thing." 

"Really?"  said  Lady  Wrensfordsley ;  "you 
won't  be  with  us  at  Christmas?  Well,  I  daresay 
you'll  find  a  livelier  party  somewhere  else. 
What's  the  time? — you  go  this  afternoon,  you 
say.  I  had  better  give  you  the  cheque  now, 
then."  She  turned  to  the  desk  again,  and  picked 
up  her  pen.  "By  the  way,"  she  added,  "you 
might  perhaps — er — mention  to  Helen  ...  I 
mean  you  might  let  her  know  that  you  don't  re- 
gard the  stupid  affair  seriously.  There's  always 
a  way  of  conveying  these  things,  and  as  you 
mayn't  meet  each  other  for  months,  it  might  be 
as  well  to  let  her  understand  that  there's  noth- 
ing in  it  when  you  say  good-bjre." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  157 

"Certainly,"  said  Seymour.  He  took  the 
cheque.    "I  have  no  words " 

"No,"  she  said,  "don't  try  to  find  any.  I  don't 
want  you  to  thank  me.  That's  all  right,  Bobbie. 
But  don't  go  getting  yourself  into  difficulties  any 
more!"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  was  a  lot 
of  money,  but  she  had  not  often  drawn  a  cheque 
with  a  greater  sense  of  satisfaction. 


CHAPTER  XI 

When  Seymour  mentioned  during  luncheon 
that  he  should  not  be  with  them  at  Christmas, 
the  carelessness  of  his  announcement  hurt  the 
girl.  There  had  been  various  references  between 
them  to  Christmas  latterly;  several  persons  were 
expected  and  there  was  some  idea  of  theatricals, 
in  which  he  had  offered  to  take  part.  He  had, 
in  point  of  fact,  professed  himself  willing  to  carry 
on  a  tea-tray,  with  the  secret  hope  of  being  cast 
for  the  lover.  For  an  instant  she  wondered  how 
their  plans  could  have  slipped  his  memory,  and 
then,  with  a  wave  of  indignation,  she  felt  that  he 
had  been  banished. 

His  air,  however,  did  not  support  the  theory, 
and  she  was  puzzled;  she  could  not  avoid  seeing 
that  he  was  far  gayer  now  than  when  he  had  ar- 
rived. The  respite  from  anxiety  had,  indeed, 
sent  his  spirits  up  to  par,  and  the  cheerfulness 
with  which  he  made  little  jokes  and  laughed  at 
them  himself,  was  obviously  genuine.  His  em- 
barrassment did  not  occur  till  he  was  alone  with 
her;  and  their  tete-a-tete  was  not  to  be  yet,  for 

158 


THE  WORLDLINGS  159 

Lady  Wrens  ford  sley  was  far  too  diplomatic  to 
betray  any  eagerness  to  efface  herself. 

However,  between  luncheon  and  tea  the  time 
came,  and  he  hoped  that  Helen  would  question 
him.  As  she  did  not,  it  devolved  upon  him  to 
introduce  the  sub j  ect.  He  kicked  the  coal  for  in- 
spiration. 

"Awful  bore  about  Christmas!"  he  said.  "Isn't 
it?" 

"A  bore?"  she  said;  "you  mean  about  your 
not  coming  down?  Yes,  it's  rather  a  pity."  She 
was  manifestly  resolved  not  to  inquire  why  his 
intentions  had  been  changed,  and  her  reserve 
made  his  task  more  difficult.  The  next  moment, 
though,  he  turned  it  to  account  with  some  dex- 
terity. 

"Don't  be  high-and-mighty,  Helen!  I  should 
have  told  you  about  it  first,  only  you  were  so 
un-get-at-able  all  the  morning.  You  might  say 
you're  sorry  when  a  fellow  can't  come." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  smile. 

"I  was  sore,  a  tiny  bit,"  she  owned,  "but  it's  all 
it)ver  now;  we  won't  quarrel  just  when  you're 
going  away.     If  you  can't  come,  you  can't!" 

"Perhaps  it's  just  as  well  that  I  can't,"  he 
murmured. 

He  said  it  as  if  by  impulse,  but  the  best  acting 
in    the    world    could    not    have    prevented   her 


1G0  THE  WORLDLINGS 

thoughts  flying  to  her  mother  again.  Then  he 
had  been  lectured  after  all!  He  had  been  told 
he  was  in  the  way! 

"How?"  she  'said  slowly.  "Why  'just  as 
well'?"  If  he  answered:  "Because  I'm  fond  of 
you  and  your  mother  has  reminded  me  I'm  a 
beggar,"  her  whole  heart  would  go  out  to  him. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "just  as  well  on  your  account. 
People'll  begin  to  think  I'm  in  love  with  you  if 
I'm  always  hanging  about.  You  know  we  have 
flirted,  Helen,  desperately!" 

The  reply  strengthened  her  suspicion,  but  the 
tone  in  which  it  was  made  was  the  cruellest  slight 
she  had  ever  endured.  There  was  no  renuncia- 
tion in  it — she  could  not  deceive  herself;  if  he 
had  been  given  a  hint,  it  had  quite  evidently  had 
his  cordial  approval.  She  was  cold  with  an  aw- 
ful fear  that  he  might  have  detected  her  tender- 
ness for  him — that  he  might  be  reading  her  a 
lesson ;  and  she  would  have  given  ten  years  of  her 
life  at  the  instant  to  prove  to  him  how  superflu- 
ous it  was. 

She  forced  her  eyes,  wide  with  amusement,  to 
his  face. 

"I  didn't  know  it,"  she  said;  "so  we  have 
'flirted  desperately' — you  and  I?  Oh,  Bobbie, 
how  very  unprincipled  of  you!  What  a  risk  I 
have  run — if  I  had  only  dreamed!" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  161 

Seymour  looked  a  little  uncomfortable. 

"You  know  I  didn't  mean  that  at  all,"  he  said, 
reddening;  "I  only  meant  that  people  might 
think  there  was  something  in  it.  I'm  not  such 
a  conceited  ass  as  to  suppose " 

She  would  hear  no  more,  and  she  cut  him  short 
with  laughter ;  but  it  rang  false  in  her  ears.  Did 
he  guess?  It  was  the  one  question  she  kept  ask- 
ing herself.  The  thought  that  she — for  whom 
the  only  reproach  that  men  had  ever  found  was 
that  she  was  cold — might  be  standing  before  him 
like  a  schoolgirl,  rebuked  for  sentimentality,  was 
piercing  her.  Ten  years  of  her  life?  If  now  he 
had  cried  to  her  that  he  loved  her,  and  that  her 
humiliation  had  been  caused  only  by  a  jest,  she 
would  have  thanked  Heaven  for  the  chance  to 
perjure  herself  and  refuse  him. 

Her  shame  bowed  her  when  he  had  closed  the 
door.  Of  a  truth  she  had  shaken  his  vanity  se- 
verely, but  she  had  lost  the  composure  necessary 
to  believe  that  she  had  deceived  him  at  all.  If 
he  had  always  guessed  her  folly,  or  if  her  mother's 
greater,  and  unpardonable,  folly  had  illumined 
his  perception,  no  mere  words  could  have  served 
her.  She  leant  against  the  mantel-shelf,  her  head 
resting  on  her  arm.  Tears  of  anger  sprang  to 
her  eyes,  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  hated 
herself  and  him  the  more  because  she  was  crying ; 


162  THE  WORLDLINGS 

and  again  and  again  she  longed  for  a  proposal 
from  him,  only  that  she  might  convince  him  that 
she  didn't  care  for  him  and  recover  her  self- 
esteem. 

It  was  like  this  that  Maurice  found  her  ten 
minutes  later.  She  made  a  valiant  effort,  but  her 
eyes  were  wet ;  and  he  was  too  fond  of  her  to  be 
competent  to  ignore  the  fact. 

"I  startled  you,"  he  stammered;  "forgive  me!" 

"I  didn't  hear  you  come  in.  My  head  aches — 
I'm  not  myself." 

"I  can't  bear  to  see  you  grieve,"  said  Maurice; 
he  had  never  spoken  to  her  so  spontaneously. 
"Is  there  anything  that  I  can  do?  Tell  me — I'd 
do  anything  in  the  world  to  save  you  pain." 

She  lifted  a  smile  to  him,  deprecating  his  earn- 
estness with  convention. 

"Oh,  no;  it's  very  kind  of  you,  but  it  was  noth- 
ing. Pray  don't  look  so  anxious.  We  women 
make  such  a  fuss  about  a  trifle,  you  know."  She 
moved  to  leave  him. 

"Ah,  Helen!"  he  exclaimed,  "Helen!" 

"Mr.  Jardine?" 

"Yes,  'Helen'— 'Helen'!"  His  arms  ached  to 
hold  her,  and  he  remembered  nothing  but  his  love 
and  her  distress.  "I  have  been  hungry  to  call 
you  'Helen.'  Oh,  my  Love,  I  love  you.  To  see 
you  cry!    I  didn't  know  you  could  cry — you! — 


THE  WORLDLINGS  163 

you've  seemed  so  stately  to  me  and  so  far  away 
— and  then,  in  a  second,  your  tears  brought  me 
nearer  to  you  than  all  the  months.  I  love  you. 
Dear,  I  love  you." 

She  stood  pale  and  thoughtful,  and  he  trem- 
bled in  her  silence. 

"I'm  not  worthy,"  he  said.  "Oh,  I  know — 
under  your  feet.  But  no  shade  of  care  shall  ever 
touch  you.  .  .  .  I'll  only  live  to  give  you  happi- 
ness. .  .  .  You  would  turn  my  life  into  a  heaven, 
and  I'd  worship  you.  .  .  .  There's  no  one  like 
you.  If  I  could  tell  you  what  you  are  to  me, 
you'd  pity  me.  But  I  can't — I  become  a  boy — 
you  take  my  words  away." 

"You  think  so  much  of  me  as  that?" 

He  drew  nearer  to  her.  "Are  you  giving  me 
hope?"  he  asked. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  half  playfully,  "if  I'm  so  very 
wonderful,  I  should  be  selfish,  shouldn't  I,  to  re- 
fuse?" 

"May  God  protect  you,  and  let  met"  gasped 
Maurice.  He  kissed  her  hands — he  did  not  dare 
as  yet  to  touch  her  lips.  "You've  made  me  the 
happiest  man  on  earth." 

Now  her  mother's  voice  was  heard;  and  the 
next  moment  she  came  into  the  room. 

"Bobbie'll  miss  his  train  if  he  doesn't  make 
haste,"  she  said:  "where  is  he?" 


164  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"Lady  Wrensfordsley,"  said  Maurice,  "will 
you  give  your  daughter  to  me?  I  don't  deserve 
her,  but  all  my  life  I  mean  to  try." 

She  embraced  them  with  a  gaze. 

"This  is  a  surprise  indeed,"  she  faltered.  "But 
— but  yes,  from  my  heart!  There's  no  man  I 
should  grudge  her  to  so  little."  She  opened  her 
arms,  and  Helen  went  to  her  passively. 

"I  should  like  Bobbie  to  know,  before  he  goes, 
mother,"  murmured  the  girl. 

Almost  as  she  spoke,  he  joined  them,  in  haste 
to  say  good-bye,  and  Lady  Wrensfordsley  said: 
"You  must  spare  time  to  offer  your  congratu- 
lations first!" 

Seymour  looked  from  his  cousin  to  Maurice, 
and  back  again,  genuinely  astonished. 

"What?  No,  really?"  he  exclaimed.  "By 
Jove,  no  end  of  good  wishes  to  you  both?  So 
that  was  why  you  laughed?"  he  added  under  his 
breath. 

"That  was  why  I  laughed!" 

"I  hope  you'll  be  tremendously  happy!" 

She  tendered  a  careless  hand.  "So  good  of 
you,"  she  said. 

Her  deep  satisfaction  might  have  shown  her 
that  her  feeling  for  him  had  been  shallow,  but 
her  feeling  for  him  had  been  a  weakness  that  she 
intended  never  to  think  about  again.    Her  mind 


THE  WORLDLINGS  165 

was  more  occupied  in  questioning  her  sentiments 
for  Maurice.  Had  she  acted  wisely?  She  had 
been  prepared  for  a  proposal  from  him  long  ago, 
and  had  meant  to  decline  it,  but  the  circum- 
stances had  been  favourable  for  him,  and  more- 
over his  words  had  touched  her.  Yes,  she  be- 
lieved she  would  be  happy  enough  with  him. 
When  she  had  called  him  a  bore,  she  had  been 
thinking  of  his  too  obvious  homage,  and  since  she 
was  to  be  his  wife,  his  homage  wouldn't  be  unde- 
sirable. She  hoped  he  would  not  expect  devotion 
in  return,  however;  it  was  quite  impossible  for 
her  to  yield  him  that,  and  she  would  be  sorry  if 
their  marriage  disappointed  him.  At  any  rate  he 
could  never  say  that  she  had  professed  anything. 
In  church  she  would  have  to  do  so,  of  course — she 
recalled  the  fact  with  distaste — but  then  the  wed- 
ding-service was  a  form  which  no  woman  whom 
she  knew  took  seriously.  Presumably  men  didn't 
take  it  seriously  either. 

While  she  mused,  she  was  listening,  and  speak- 
ing. Seymour  had  gone,  and  Lady  Wrensford- 
sley  chattered  complacently.  Dusk  had  stolen 
in  upon  them,  and  Maurice  noted  the  flicker  of 
the  firelight  on  the  corner  of  a  gilt  picture-frame ; 
a  heap  of  cumulus  darkening  in  the  sky ;  the  vio- 
lets that  the  girl's  fingers  were  mechanically  de- 
stroying.   Trifles  stamped  themselves  on  his  con- 


166  THE  WORLDLINGS 

sciousness,  but  the  magnitude  of  her  promise 
dwarfed  his  brain.  While  an  intense  joy  per- 
vaded him,  there  was  a  sensation  of  unreality. 
She  was  such  a  long  way  off;  no,  not  a  long  way 
off — only  the  length  of  the  rug  between  them — 
but  there  was  the  impression  of  distance.  He 
was  to  be  her  husband.  Stupendous!  His  heart 
quaked  at  the  sourd;  something  must  happen  to 
prevent  it — the  world  would  end  first?  He 
would  have  prostrated  himself  for  her  to  tread 
on,  and  she  was  going  to  entrust  him  with  her 
body  and  soul.  It  was  to  be  his  to  guard  her,  to 
sympathise  with  her,  to  fathom  all  the  caprices 
of  her  moods,  and  the  failings  of  her  temper — 
O  God,  give  her  failings  that  he  might  humour 
them! — to  explore,  dazzled  by  its  radiance,  the 
paradise  of  her  personality. 

There  wTas  a  misty  moon  when  he  took  his  way 
home.  He  had  asked  her  to  call  him  by  his 
name,  and  she  had  stabbed  him  with  the  name  of 
"Philip";  it  had  never  struck  him  so  painfully. 
The  recollection  came  that  never  would  he  hear 
her  call  him  by  his  own;  though  she  grew  to  love 
him  even  with  the  love  that  he  prayed  for,  he 
would  always  be  "Philip"  to  her!  His  conscience, 
which  had  slumbered,  stirred  and  woke  under  the 
sting  of  the  thought.  What  had  he  done?  How 
weak,  how  shamefully  weak  and  guilty  he  had 


THE  WORLDLINGS  167 

been !  After  all  his  struggles,  to  have  told  her  at 
last !  He  wrung  his  hands.  Yet  he  knew  in  his 
soul  that  he  wasn't  sorrv.  His,  and  his  only,  the 
suffering,  now  and  always — and  so  what  matter  ? 
He  would  accept  suffering  for  Eternity  to  gain 
her  and  exult  in  Hell  to  know  that  she  had  been 
his  wife! 

The  Baronet's  delight  made  triumphal  music 
in  his  ears  awhile,  and  then  he  was  again  alone. 
Remorse  was  drowned  in  imagination.  There 
was  the  night  to  remember  in,  and  the  morrow 
to  foresee. 

He  rose  with  the  eagerness  of  a  boy  mad  with 
his  first  love.  He  wanted  to  go  to  town,  early, 
at  once,  and  buy  the  ring.  He  reached  Which- 
cote  while  The  Morning  Post  was  still  warm  from 
the  kitchen-fire.  Helen  gave  him  her  finger  and 
a  thread  of  silk — and  the  world  swayed  as  he 
held  them;  but  he  could  take  no  measurement. 
A  little  colour  tinged  her  face  at  his  enthusiasm. 
He  tore  off  a  scrap  of  the  paper,  and  she  poked 
her  finger  through  that,  as  she  might  have  poked 
it  through  his  heart  had  she  pleased ;  and  he  said : 
"What  shall  I  bring  you?  Or  shall  we  have  a 
lot  sent  down  for  you  to  choose  from?  Which 
would  you  prefer?" 

"Which  would  youV  she  asked. 

"If  you  can  tell  me  what  you  want,  I'd  like 


168  THE  WORLDLINGS 

to  bring  it  to  you,"  he  owned.  "I  want  to  rush 
off  and  get  it,  and  rush  back  with  it  and  make 
the  incredible  seem  true.  I  suppose  it's  ridicu- 
lous, but " 

"It's  very  charming  of  you,"  she  smiled. 
"Well,  choose  it  for  me  yourself.     I  leave  it  to 

you." 

Maurice  stood  looking  at  her  in  a  moment's 
silence. 

"Would  it  be  'ridiculous,'  "  he  said,  "if  I  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  kiss  you?" 

He  thought  she  flinched  a  little.  Then  her  face 
flushed  again,  and  she  inclined  her  cheek  to  him. 
He  knew  beyond  the  possibility  of  self-deception 
that  he  was  nothing  to  her. 

"I'll  bring  you  the  most  beautiful  ring  I  can 
see,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Whether  Sir  Noel's  illness  had  been  caused 
by  his  despondency,  or  not,  his  convalescence  had 
certainly  proceeded  with  rapid  strides  since  his 
satisfaction.  There  had  been  some  talk  of  his 
passing  the  rest  of  the  winter  in  a  milder  climate, 
but  he  was  averse  from  even  the  shortest  journey, 
and  as  the  change  was  not  essential,  he  had  re- 
mained by  the  fireside  at  the  Court.  Here  he 
beamed  mildly  in  contemplating  the  realisation 
of  his  hope,  and,  when  Maurice  was  present,  sang 
a  superfluous  pasan  of  Helen.  Lady  Wrens- 
fordsley  and  she  called  constantly  to  see  him  now, 
and  the  proudest  hours  that  he  had  known  were 
these  in  which  the  girl  who  was  to  be  his  daugh- 
ter-in-law flattered  him  with  her  attentions. 
Maurice  was  conscious  that  he  never  saw  her  to 
more  advantage  than  by  the  old  man's  side;  the 
slightly  contemptuous  beauty  of  her  face  took  a 
new  character,  and  though  he  could  not  suppose 
that  she  entertained  any  affection  for  the  Bar- 
onet, the  gentleness  of  her  solicitude  for  him  was 
extremely  graceful. 

169 


170  "     THE  WORLDLINGS 

To  Rosa  the  news  of  the  engagement  had  been 
no  less  catastrophic  because  she  had  dreaded  it. 
It  had  reached  her  through  the  medium  of  a 
paragraph,  for  Maurice  had  shrunk  from  con- 
fessing he  had  fallen;  and  that  she  had  been  left 
to  gather  the  information  from  a  paper  inten- 
sified her  sense  of  injury. 

Absurd  as  it  was,  she  had  all  the  emotion  of 
having  suffered  an  indefensible  wrong,  and  she 
beheld  herself  in  the  light  of  a  benefactress  who 
had  been  repudiated  when  her  services  were  all 
conferred.  Her  mind  harped  resentfully  on  the 
fact  that  was  incontrovertible — their  compact  had 
not  been  fulfilled;  she  was  as  far  from  society 
as  before  Maurice  had  entered  it.  Latterly  she 
had  forced  herself  to  disguise  impatience  well, 
and  the  remembrance  of  her  wasted  sacrifice 
burned  in  her.  When  at  last  he  came,  it  was  only 
the  fear  of  betraying  her  defeat  that  kept  her 
tongue  in  check. 

"You've  been  in  no  hurry  for  my  congratula- 
tions," she  said  surlily. 

'To   be   candid,    I    was    afraid   of   your   re- 
proaches," said  Maurice. 

"My  reproaches?"  Her  glance  questioned 
him.  "Oh,  when  a  thing  is  done,  all  the  re- 
proaches in  the  world  won't  alter  it!" 

She  knew  that  the  umbrage  of  her  tone  must 


THE  WORLDLINGS  171 

be  unaccountable  to  him,  but  to  repress  recrim- 
ination strained  her  enough. 

"When  are  you  to  be  married?"  she  inquired 
after  a  pause. 

"In  March.    I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  it." 

"You've  been  in  no  hurry,"  she  said  again; 
"I  read  the  news  a  fortnight  ago  in  Truth.  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  too;  you  mean  to  ask  me 
to  the  wedding,  of  course?" 

Maurice  paled,  and  looked  at  her  blankly. 

"To — to  ask  you  to  the  wedding?"  he  said. 
"It's  to  be  very  quiet,  on  account  of  Sir  Noel's 
health ;  we  are  to  be  married  at  Oakenhurst.  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  do  that." 

"You  see,"  said  Rosa,  with  a  quiver  in  her 
voice,  "I  have  waited  a  long  time  for  you  to  keep 
your  word.  You  had  no  opportunity,  you  told 
me;  the  wedding'll  be  a  splendid  one." 

The  suggestion  horrified  him.  There  might  be 
women  in  society  no  better;  but  Rosa  Fleming, 
whom  he  had  met  as  Jardine's  mistress!  To  in- 
troduce her  to  Helen,  and  see  them  clasp  hands? 
No,  by  Heaven!  he  might  be  a  rogue,  but  he 
wasn't  a  cad. 

"You're  mistaken,"  he  said;  "it  isn't  an  oppor- 
tunity; it's  not  to  be  a  big  affair  in  town.  If  I 
wanted  you  invited,  it  would  be  extraordinary; 
people  would  wonder." 


172  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"I  don't  know  if  it  ever  occurs  to  you,"  she 
returned  sharply,  "but  it's  a  year  since  our  agree- 
ment was  made;  and  I  think  it's  about  time  I  had 
my  share.  If  the  wedding  is  to  be  a  small  one, 
I'll  put  up  with  it — that's  my  business!" 

His  brows  knit  in  perplexity.  Insistence 
would  compel  him  to  avow  the  real  reason;  and 
to  hint  to  a  woman  that  she  was  not  a  fit  acquaint- 
ance for  the  girl  who  was  to  be  his  wife  would 
be  a  loathsome  task — especially  for  a  man  like 
himself.  Xo  matter  how  ingeniously  he  might 
put  it,  the  moment  would  be  damnable  for  them 
both. 

"If  you'll  hear  what  I  came  to  tell  you " 

he  began;  but  her  self-control  was  fast  deserting 
her. 

"I'd  rather,"  she  exclaimed,  "that  you  heard 
me!  I  say  a  year  has  gone  by  and  I've  had  noth- 
ing. I'm  stowed  away  in  a  furnished  flat.  I 
don't  want  a  flat;  I  want  my  owrn  house — and 
other  people's  houses;  I  want  what  I'm  entitled 
to.  When  I  complain,  I  get  one  excuse  after 
another.  I'm  sick  of  them.  Do  what  you  agreed 
to  do.  Give  me  a  chance.  You've. had  yours — 
I  want  mine!" 

'You  can  have  a  house  whenever  you  like," 
said  Maurice.  "Will  you  listen  to  me?  My  in- 
come is  to  be  five  thousand  when  I  marry;  that 


THE  WORLDLINGS  173 

means  that  yours  will  be  twelve  hundred  and 
fifty.  For  Heaven's  sake  be  reasonable!  I  give 
you  my  word  of  honour — well,  perhaps  I  haven't 
got  any  honour — I  swear  to  you  that  I've  done  all 
that  was  possible  for  you  so  far.  Don't,  don't 
accuse  me  now — I'm  accusing  myself  enough  for 
both  of  us!  Remember  that  the  last  time  I  was 
here  I  was  posing  as  a  monument  of  strength — 
and  a  few  weeks  at  Oakenhurst  crumpled  me  up 
like  straw.  I  deserve  worse  things  than  you  can 
say,  but  let  me  down  as  lightly  as  you  can.  On 
my  oath,  if  I  haven't  done  all  you  wanted,  I've 
done  my  best !  On  my  oath,  to  ask  you  to  Oaken- 
hurst would  look  very  strange." 

Her  countenance  had  cleared.  Since  her  im- 
mediate expectation  of  an  income  much  larger 
had  been  banished  by  two  telegrams  apprising 
her  of  the  Baronet's  improved  condition,  twelve 
hundred  and  fifty  was  a  welcome  surprise.  It 
is  difficult  to  maintain  resentment  in  the  face  of 
good  news;  and  when  she  answered,  her  tone 
was  not  ungracious. 

"Twelve  hundred  and  fifty?"  she  said.  "Well, 
I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it;  it  will  be  very  useful, 
I'm  sure!  All  right;  I  don't  want  to  be  unrea- 
sonable— I  don't  want  to  put  a  pistol  to  your 
head — if  you  really  can't  ask  me  to  the  wedding, 
we  won't  say  any  more  about  it.     Only  I  can't 


174  THE  WORLDLINGS 

go  on  in  this  way,  you  know — an  arrangement 
is  an  arrangement — and  you  must  do  something 
else  for  me  soon.     When  can  you?" 

"I'll  see,"  he  murmured;  "I  don't  forget  you. 
Come,  in  the  meantime  things  look  better,  don't 
they?  You  can  take  a  charming  house  some- 
where; you  might  even  keep  a  carriage,  and  en- 
gage a  companion.  Or  you  could  travel;  you 
might  have  a  grand  time  on  the  Continent.  I 
should  think  that  travel  would  be  a  good  deal 
more  enjoyable  than  a  house  in  London — and 
that  way  you  would  meet  heaps  of  people.  No- 
body is  ever  satisfied,  of  course,  but  upon  my 
word  you  have  a  very  agreeable  life  from  an  out- 
sider's point  of  view!  You're  free  to  go  where 
you  choose,  you  can  buy  almost  anything  you 
like,  you  have  no  responsibilities:  it  isn't  hard- 
ship, now,  is  it?" 

She  accorded  him  a  grudging  smile,  and  when 
they  parted,  it  was  ostensibly  as  friends ;  but  the 
remembrance  of  the  interview  lurked  in  his  mind 
disquietingly.  Her  grievance,  indeed,  worried 
him  now  more  than  it  worried  Rosa.  The  no- 
tion of  travelling  in  good  style  on  the  Continent 
tickled  her  fancy — she  had  long  been  eager  to  see 
Monte  Carlo;  it  would  be  agreeable  to  mingle 
with  such  a  fashionable  crowd  as  those  whose 
departures  for  the  Engadine  had  been  chronicled 


THE  WORLDLINGS  175 

earlier  in  the  year;  moreover,  when  his  marriage 
had  taken  place,  there  would  be  his  own  draw- 
ing-room accessible.  Her  perception  of  the  truth 
was  dim  as  yet;  she  was  not  a  sensitive  woman, 
and  she  attributed  his  procrastination  chiefly  to 
moral  cowardice.  When  he  had  his  establish- 
ment in  town  and  was  the  host  at  balls  and  din- 
ner-parties, it  appeared  to  her  that  he  could  shirk 
his  duty  to  her  no  longer. 

The  thought  of  this  impending  situation  was 
precisely  what  troubled  Maurice.  He  realised 
that  the  difficulty  had  been  only  postponed  and 
that  sooner  or  later  he  would  have  to  meet  her 
demand  with  a  definite  refusal.  He  stood  be- 
tween two  fires,  in  the  knowledge,  and  whether 
he  turned  to  right  or  left,  there  would  be  a  burn- 
ing sense  of  guilt. 

It  was  no  easy  matter  for  him  to  violate  his 
undertaking;  he  had  never  broken  his  word  to 
anybody,  and  he  did  not  conceal  from  himself 
that  Rosa's  indignation  would  be  warranted. 
That  a  wiser  woman  would  have  been  content 
in  her  position  was  beside  the  matter;  he  had 
entered  into  a  contract  with  her  and  she  was 
justified  in  requiring  him  to  fulfil  it.  It  seemed 
to  the  obligant  that  Fate  forbade  him  to  be  hon- 
est to  anyone  as  "Philip  Jardine,"  even  to  his 
accomplice. 


176  THE  WORLDLINGS 

That  he  might  be  staunch  to  her,  at  least,  by 
offering  an  indignity  to  Helen  he  saw  clearly 
enough,  and  he  saw  that  Helen  would  be  quite 
untarnished  by  his  action;  but  he  would  violate 
a  score  of  contracts  first!  Since  baseness  was 
inevitable,  he  must  be  base  to  Rosa.  He  was 
menaced  by  a  quandary  which  could  have  been 
averted  only  by  his  withdrawing  from  the  en- 
gagement; and  even  this  course,  which  did  not 
present  itself  to  him,  could  not  have  been  adopted 
without  casting  some  slur  on  the  girl  he  revered. 

He  was  fully  aware  that  the  predicament  had 
had  its  origin  in  his  owrn  sin — the  average  fool 
could  not  have  stated  the  fact  more  luminously, 
in  pronouncing  judgment  on  him;  but  this  was 
as  irrelevant  to  his  conduct  to-dav  as  the  climate 
of  Callao.  Indeed,  a  lifetime  is  a  very  delicate 
possession,  and  to  all  men  there  should  be  given 
a  second,  with  remembrance  of  the  first.  Alas! 
instead  of  a  second  youth,  which  would  be  ex- 
quisite, we  have  only  a  second  childhood,  which 
is  painful.  For  the  role  that  he  was  playing 
Maurice  had  valuable  qualifications,  but  he  lacked 
the  most  important  one — callousness.  His  cyni- 
cism was  verbal,  not  ingrained;  he  had  reviled  the 
world  while  it  turned  its  back  upon  him,  but  as 
soon  as  it  opened  its  arms  he  forgave.  The 
pricks  and  pangs  that  he  had  experienced  were 


THE  WORLDLINGS  177 

due  to  his  setting  at  defiance  a  temperament 
which  he  had  partially  misunderstood.  Many 
men  in  his  place,  hundreds  and  thousands  of  men, 
would  have  been  more  tranquil:  the  thought  of 
distant  heirs,  unknown  in  the  connection,  did  not 
present  itself  to  him,  and  he  had  given  an  old 
man  considerable  happiness.  But  for  Maurice 
the  role  was  a  misfit.  He  had  winced  at  the 
tokens  of  Sir  Noel's  affection,  because  he  had 
grown  fond  of  him ;  he  had  fallen  in  love — which 
the  biggest  scoundrel  may  do — but  had  had  hours 
of  torture  because  he  was  unworthv  to  acknowl- 
edge  it ;  he  had  resolved  to  treat  his  partner  badly 
since  there  was  no  alternative,  but  tossed  sleep- 
lessly  because  he  foresaw  himself  forsworn. 

Lady  Wrensfordsley  had  offered  to  bring  two 
thousand  a  year  into  settlement,  but  he  had  de- 
clared that  it  was  quite  unnecessary.  At  least 
Helen  should  owe  to  her  acceptance  of  him  noth- 
ing that  he  did  not  provide.  The  wedding,  as 
he  had  said,  was  to  be  in  March,  and  as  the  time 
approached,  the  thought  of  it  blotted  all  other 
considerations  from  his  mind.  The  breath  of  fear 
which  has  sickened  everybody  during  weeks  of 
passionate  foretaste  made  him  yearn  for  the  day's 
birth  with  all  his  being.  Many  moments  there 
were  when,  bewildered  again  by  the  whirlwind 
of  his  emotion,  Maurice  was  literally  unable  to 


178  THE  WORLDLINGS 

realise  that  the  effulgent  future  that  he  beheld 
could  ever  be ;  it  seemed  even  more  incredible  by- 
reason  of  the  self-suppression  that  he  exercised, 
by  contrast  with  her  distance  from  him  now.  It 
wasn't  such  an  engagement  as,  when  fancy  had 
run  riot,  he  had  sometimes  pictured — not  such 
an  engagement  as  precedes  a  love-match;  he 
knew  that,  in  his  maddest  minutes.  He  knew 
that  he  would  marry  a  girl  who  was  making  an 
"alliance,"  who  was  no  fonder  of  him  than  she 
had  been  on  the  morning  when  he  first  kissed  her 
cheek.  She  was  still  a  goddess  enthroned  to  him ; 
but  the  world  had  narrowed  to  her  dominion,  and 
his  heart  swelled  with  rapture.  Never  so  ar- 
dently as  he  did  now  had  he  appreciated  the  pos- 
session of  wealth.  The  pleasure  of  pouring  pres- 
ents upon  her  was  the  rarest  luxury  he  had 
known,  and  he  joyed  to  take  trouble  in  acquiring 
something — to  do  more  than  go  into  a  jeweller's, 
or  a  fan-maker's,  or  a  florist's  and  select  from  the 
stock  displayed.  He  would  have  bought  Bond 
Street  for  her  if  he  had  been  rich  enough,  but 
they  wrere  not  always  the  most  expensive  gifts 
within  his  means  that  afforded  him  the  greatest 
gratification.  He  had  once  devoted  a  day  to  the 
purchase  of  antique  silver  buttons,  because  Lady 
Wrensfordslev  had  casually  observed  in  his  hear- 
ing   that   "antique    silver   buttons   would   have 


THE  WORLDLINGS  179 

looked  much  better  on  it!"  His  ultimate  discov- 
ery of  a  set  which  was  both  of  the  right  number 
and  the  right  size  delighted  him  as  a  successful 
mission  for  the  woman  with  whom  he  is  in  love 
ever  delights  a  man.  The  considerate  woman 
would  provide  him  with  many  opportunities  for 
such  delight,  because  the  period  of  her  power  to 
do  so  is  generally  brief. 

The  stream  of  wedding-presents,  from  Sir 
Noel's  parure  of  diamonds  to  the  jade  paper- 
cutter  of  an  acquaintance — still  more,  the  deliv- 
ery of  the  bridesmaids'  bracelets — helped  Maurice 
to  feel  that  the  date  was  actually  drawing  near. 
Helen  had  less  leisure  for  reverie ;  in  the  interval 
between  her  ceasing  to  be  her  own,  and  realising 
that  she  was  his,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  belonged 
to  nobody  but  dressmakers,  and  tailors,  and  mil- 
liners. Not  since  she  had  been  presented  had  the 
formula?  of  fashion  fatigued  her  so  much.  Lady 
Wrensfordsley  was  tremulous  with  triumph  and 
in  a  position  to  be  prodigal,  and  she  gave  with 
both  hands.  Her  rope  of  pearls  was  as  perfect 
as  the  neck  that  it  was  meant  for,  and  the  girl's 

frocks  cost  a  fortune.     Her  wedding-gown 

It  was  described  at  the  time;  in  retrospection 
Maurice  supposed  that  she  wore  white. 

He  only  knew  that  it  was  she — that  the  in- 
credible had   happened — that  he  had   a  heart, 


180  THE  WORLDLINGS 

thumping,  thumping  in  his  breast.  Subsidiary 
figures  presumably  performed  their  duty.  She 
was  given  away — Almighty  God! — to  him.  His 
soul  rushed  to  her  clasp.  He  knelt,  praying  in 
a  prayer  without  words  that  God  would  be  ten- 
der to  her,  that  regret  should  never  touch  her  life. 
"Pardon,  O  God!  Pardon  me,  pardon  me"; 
his  spirit  uttered  it  a  hundred  times.  And  next 
he  prayed:  "Damn  me  for  ever,  God,  so  that  I 
live  the  lie  out — so  that  my  sin  won't  harm  her!" 
.  .  .  The  book  was  closed.  People  shook  hands 
with  him.  The  solemnity  of  the  organ  filled  the 
church,  the  hour,  and  the  Universe.  They  were 
husband  and  wife.  Was  it  Oakenhurst,  or 
Heaven?  He  was  alone  with  her,  and  could  have 
sobbed  thanksgiving.  .  .  .  They  had  reached  the 
house.  The  wine  buzzed  on  his  palate  tastelessly, 
and  he  heard  the  voices,  and  his  own  voice,  from 
afar.  The  room  seemed  very  full,  but  only 
Helen's  face  was  clear.  The  room  seemed  empty 
— Helen  had  disappeared.  How  long  she  was 
absent! — something  must  be  wrong?  His  gaze 
devoured  her  when  she  entered:  she  had  been 
crying;  she  was  dressed  to  go  away  with  him — 
to  go  away  with  him!  the  sight  of  her  hat  thrilled 
his  blood.  Now  the  wrench  was  over  for  her — 
they  were  on  the  steps  at  last;  and  the  door  of 
the  carriage  had  been  closed  again. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

They  had  arrived  only  a  few  hours  since,  and 
their  relation  to  each  other,  even  the  aspect  of 
the  lamplit  room,  and  the  sound  of  the  servants' 
names  were  strange  to  them  as  yet.  They  had 
been  dining,  and  were  still  at  the  table,  dallying 
with  dessert.  A  little  silence  had  fallen  between 
them,  and  the  woman  sat  trying  to  feel  at  home. 

Stranger  than  he,  and  than  all  besides,  was  the 
sense  of  unfamiliarity  with  herself.  She  strug- 
gled with  it  constantly,  but  from  this  she  could 
not  escape;  she  was  as  foreign  to  herself  in  soli- 
tude as  in  his  arms.  It  seemed  to  her  that  mar- 
riage meant  the  surrender  of  everything,  even  of 
one's  identity. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  dearest?"  said 
Maurice. 

"Was  I  thinking?  I'm  not  sure  that  I  was." 
She  rose  with  a  suppressed  sigh,  and  moved 
slowly  to  the  window.  "How  divine!"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"Shall  we  go  out  there?"  he  asked.  "Shall 
we  go  and  look  at  the  sea?    We  have  everything 

181 


L8S  THE  WORLDLINGS 

to  explore,  sweetheart ;  let's  begin  by  losing  our- 
selves in  the  garden." 

She  smiled  assent,  and  he  held  the  window 
open  for  her. 

"But  wait,"  he  said.  "You  had  better  have  a 
wrap." 

"The  night  is  too  warm,"  she  said,  looking 
back  over  her  shoulder;  "no,  come — I  want  to 
go  now,  as  we  are!" 

He  obeyed  her  instantly,  and  they  descended 
together.  Indeed,  the  scented  air  was  as  gentle 
as  a  caress,  and  under  a  vivid  moon  the  garden 
was  a  fairyland  filled  with  a  thousand  delights 
and  invitations.  For  some  moments  neither 
spoke;  they  wandered  along  a  winding  walk  from 
which  they  could  see  the  silver  quiver  of  the 
waves.  Where  the  path  ended,  they  discovered 
that  the  owners  of  the  villa  had  devised  a  seat, 
embowered  in  myrtles,  and  overhung  by  the  pink 
blossom  of  an  almond-tree.  The  view  from  it 
was  sublime,  and  Maurice  and  she  remained  lost 
in  contemplation.  Presently  Helen,  who  was 
sitting,  lifted  her  eyes  to  him,  and  with  a  quick 
gesture  of  authority,  that  he  found  enchanting, 
motioned  him  to  the  space  beside  her. 

"Doesn't  it  make  one  grateful  to  have  sight?" 
she  said. 

"I'm  wishing,"  said  he,  "that  you  had  never 


THE  WORLDLINGS  183 

seen  it  before.  To  me  it's  so  breathlessly  new ;  I 
should  like  it  to  be  new  to  you." 

"It  is  new,"  she  said,  "it's  always  new.  And 
this  garden's  a  dream!  Look  at  the  oranges — 
why  are  they  so  much  daintier  while  they  grow 
than  when  they're  picked?  And  how  black  that 
cypress!  it  makes  the  moonlight  whiter." 

"Over  your  head,"  said  Maurice,  "is  a  branch 
of  almond-blossom  that  makes  your  features 
fairer." 

"It  must  be  very  becoming,"  she  replied,  flash- 
ing fun  at  him;  "I  saw  it  when  I  sat  down." 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  beautiful  it  is  to 
hear  you  speak  to  me  like  that!" 

"So  vainly?" 

"So  frankly!  I  should  like  you  to  have  a  mil- 
lion vanities,  that  you  might  show  me  every  one 
of  them." 

"If  you  aren't  more  sensible  your  wish  is  likely 
to  come  true.  Do  men  find  women's  vanities  so 
charming,  then?" 

"What  do  I  know,"  he  said,  "of  other  men  and 
women?    There  are  only  you  and  I  in  the  world." 

She  laughed  softly,  not  displeased.  "Then  are 
mine  so  charming?  Why  would  Helen's  vanities 
charm  Philip?  Did  you  have  the  Child's  Guide 
to  Knowledge  when  you  were  a  little  boy?" 

"Yes,  it  was  fat  and  short,  I  can  remember  it. 


184  THE  WORLDLINGS 

Because  they'd  help  me  to  understand  that  you 
are  mortal." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "I  shall  hecome  more  mortal  to 
you  every  day,  don't  fear!" 

"Is  it  a  promise?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  a  warning,"  she  said. 

For  answer  he  clasped  her  hand,  and  retained 
it  until  the  misgiving  stirred  her  that  their  atti- 
tude resembled  that  of  the  couples  that  she  had 
seen  about  the  lanes  of  Oakenhurst.  She  re- 
leased herself  to  point  far  away  across  the  sea. 

"Are  those  the  lights  of  Nice?"  she  said. 

He  understood  her  motive,  and  was  annoyed 
with  himself  for  having  embarrassed  her.  She 
realised  his  feeling,  and  knew  a  pang  of  self- 
reproach  that  she  was  not  in  love  with  him. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  said  Maurice,  breaking 
another  silence,  "you  weren't  born.  .  .  .  How 
stupid  that  sounds,  and  it  is  hardly  what  I  meant! 
I  mean  that  when  you  were  a  little  child,  I  was 
a  man — I  was  twenty  when  you  were  five.  And 
yet  it  seems  such  a  little  while  ago  that  I  was 
twenty." 

"I  can  remember  myself  at  five,"  said  Helen; 
"I  was  a  little  dear.     You'd  have  liked  me." 

"I'm  jealous  of  your  memories,"  he  said;  "and 
I'm  startled  by  my  own  experience.  At  twenty 
I  had  been  through  so  much,  and  you  were  run- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  185 

ning  about  in  a  pinafore.  It  doesn't  seem  right 
— or  real." 

She  did  not  follow  him  here,  for  the  wonder- 
ment was  essentially  a  lover's;  it  was  a  matter 
of  sensation  which  figures  were  powerless  to  con- 
vey. Maurice  instinctively  felt  this;  and  per- 
ceiving that  in  giving  the  thought  utterance  he 
had  indulged  his  own  mood  rather  than  sought 
to  enter  into  hers,  he  added  quickly: 

"Helen,  you  and  I  must  have  a  model  honey* 
moon.  But  I  want  to  ask  you  an  immense 
favour." 

"I'll  grant  it  in  advance,"  she  said. 

"No,  no;  that  is  just  what  you  musn't  do; 
I  want  you  to  promise  me  on  your  honour  not  to 
be  considerate.  Be  anything  else  you  please — 
capricious,  exacting,  ill-humoured — but  don't  be 
considerate.  When  I'm  boring  you,  let  me  see  it 
and  help  me  to  be  tactful;  when  you  want  me 
to  go  away,  say  so;  and  I'll  worship  out  of  sight. 
Treat  me  as  a  friend,  and  the  most  trying  time 
of  your  life  won't  be  so  hard  for  you.  Ever  since 
we  started  I've  been  haunted  by  the  fear  that 
you'd  wish  the  honeymoon  were  over;  be  honest 
with  me,  and  let  me  make  it  as  little  tedious  to 
you  as  I  can!  That'll  be  the  greatest,  the  very 
highest  manifestation  of  faith  in  my  love  for  you 
that's  possible." 


186  THE  WORLDLINGS 

These  words,  the  sincerity  with  which  thev  were 
spoken,  touched  her,  and  she  slid  her  hand  into 
his  again. 

"Xo,  no,"  he  repeated,  setting  it  loose,  "let  us 
keep  the  compact!  You  don't  want  to  he  senti- 
mental; just  now  you'd  rather  forget  that  I  am 
here." 

"You  refuse  to  take  my  hand?"  she  exclaimed, 
astonished. 

"Ah!"  said  Maurice,  "it  isn't  fair  to  put  it  like 
that.  Say  that  I  know  such  demonstrations 
rather  jar  upon  you." 

"But  it's  my  hand,"  she  murmured,  half  laugh- 
ing, half  in  earnest;  "mine!" 

"You  don't  really  want  me  to  hold  it,"  he  said; 
"I  know  you  don't."  And  recoyering  his  ordi- 
nary tone,  he  spoke  of  other  things.  She  an- 
swered in  the  same  key,  and  was  the  brighter 
lest  he  should  suspect  that  there  was  a  grain  of 
chagrin  in  her  mind.  What  he  had  said  was 
quite  true;  but  that  he  had  had  the  resolution  to 
act  upon  the  knowledge  piqued  her,  eyen  while 
it  heightened  her  respect  for  him. 

Again  there  came  a  long  pause,  while  she  was 
acutely  conscious  of  his  proximity.  She  was 
moved  by  deeper  thoughts  than  she  had  hitherto 
known.  The  responsibilities  of  life,  which  had 
long   hovered   at   the   portal,   gathered   on   the 


THE  WORLDLINGS  187 

threshold,  and  suddenly  a  man's  devotion  pre- 
sented itself  to  her  as  a  thing  so  strange  that  she 
trembled. 

"I  wish  I  were  worthier,"  she  said;  "I  have 
never  understood." 

Shame  convulsed  him,  and  for  some  seconds  he 
couldn't  reply. 

"  'Worthier'!"  he  said  at  last  hoarsely.  "God, 
if  you  only  knew!" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  know  enough.  I  know 
what  I  am  to  you,  I  think,  and  it  frightens  me. 
Why  am  I  all  that,  Philip?  Shall  I  ever  be  able 
to  'live  up'  to  the  Illusion  that  you  have  put  the 
ring  on?" 

"Be  yourself,"  he  said;  "there  is  no  more  for 
you  to  do." 

"I  am  full  of  faults,"  she  said  painfully;  "no, 
let  me  speak!  I  am  just  like  any  other  girl.  I 
have  never  had  any  high  ideals — oh,  believe  me, 
because  it's  true.  I  haven't.  I've  lived  for 
my  frocks,  and  I've  been  flattered  by  admiration, 
and — and  I  shouldn't  have  married  vou  if  vou  had 
been  a  poor  man.  Let  me  speak!  You  fell  in 
love  with  my  face — why  should  I  pretend?  I've 
been  told  that  I  had  beauty  all  my  life ;  I  under- 
stood that  I  was  a  beauty  when  I  was  in  the 
schoolroom ;  I've  heard  the  shape  of  my  nose,  and 
the  length  of  my  eyelashes  talked  of  ever  since 


188  THE  WORLDLINGS 

I  was  a  child.  But  under  this  face  of  mine,  dear, 
I  am  so  commonplace,  so  exactly  the  same  as 
anybody  else,  and — and  I'm  afraid  of  being 
found  out  and  disappointing  you,  and  yet  I  want 
you  to  know  it.  Let  me  speak!  If  you  had  mar- 
ried me  as  most  men  marry,  I  could  have  given 
you  what  you  asked — I  should  have  been  all  you 
wanted — and  it  would  have  been  all  right;  but 
you  have  exalted  me  so!  I  saw  it  while  we  were 
engaged,  and  now  I  see  it  more  plainly  than  I 
did.  Oh,  I  am  talking  all  round  what  I  mean! 
I  will  say  it:  I  am  not  capable  of — of  caring  for 
anyone  as  you  care  for  me — I  am  too  trivial." 

"You  have  never  seemed  to  me  so  sweet,  so 
fine,  so  adorable  as  you  do  now,"  said  Maurice. 
"Does  that  answer  you?" 

Her  voice  had  broken,  and  he  had  the  impres- 
sion of  a  long  interval  before  he  heard  it  again. 
Their  hands  lay  together  once  more,  and  he  bent 
down  to  her  inquiringly. 

"There  are  many  marvels,"  she  said;  "there 
are  marvels  wherever  we  turn:  the  stars,  and 
the  mountains,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  sea — 
but  to-night  the  way  a  man  thinks  of  the  woman 
he  loves  seems  to  me  the  greatest."  Her  fingers 
responded  to  him.  "You  hold  it  as  if  it  were 
sacred,"  she  smiled — "and  it  has  been  manicured 


THE  WORLDLINGS  189 

since  I  was  twelve!  Until  I  was  old  enough  to 
rebel  I  was  put  to  bed  in  gloves." 

"Even  the  gloves,"  said  Maurice,  "they'd  be 
sacred,  too!" 

"O  sea  and  stars,"  she  laughed,  "humble  your- 
selves, and  hide!"  She  regarded  him  wonder- 
ingly.  "What  have  I  ever  said  to  you?  Look 
back  to  the  beginning — to  the  day  you  first  met 
me !  Philip,  a  schoolgirl  could  have  said  as  much. 
My  face,  only  my  face!  you  have  never  seen  my 
mind  at  all.     Why  have  you  loved  me?" 

"Can  you  question  my  love  for  you? — nothing 
else  matters." 

"No,"  she  said;  "I  think  that — it  would  be 
very  foolish  of  you — that  you  would  give  your 
life  for  me." 

His  gaze  thanked  her.  "What  I  am  going  to 
say  sounds  mad.  But  in  distant  eons,  while  we 
were  engaged " 

"What  are  eons?"  she  said;  "I've  only  seen 
them  in  print." 

"They  were  my  period  in  purgatory  before  an 
oversight  let  me  into  heaven.  I  say  that  while 
we  were  engaged  I  used  to  wish,  among  many 
wishes — and  among  many  prayers — that  these 
were  the  days  when  heroes  were  made  by  physical 
strength  and  that  I  could  go  to  attempt  some- 
thing Herculean  for  you  and  bring  back  a  trophy. 


190  THE  WORLDLINGS 

Why  don't  you  command  me  to  get  you  some- 
thing, Helen — what  shall  I  bring?" 

She  pointed  out  into  the  garden,  where  the 
mimosa  hung  motionless  in  the  mellow  night: 
'Father,'  said  Beauty,  'bring  me  a  rose!' 

Then  the  man  plucked  roses,  and  brought  them 
to  the  woman's  lap,  and  fastened  the  fairest  in 
her  breast. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

And  long  afterwards,  when  she  slept,  his 
mind  reiterated  words  that  she  had  spoken,  and 
her  wish  that  she  were  worthier  of  his  love  wrung 
him  again.  For  himself  there  was  no  sleep;  his 
eyes  ached  for  lack  of  it  and  their  lids  were  heavy ; 
but  conscience  had  never  been  more  wakeful,  and 
his  brain  worked  with  the  persistence  of  the  watch 
that  ticked  beside  the  bed.  Once  he  bit  his  lips 
to  stifle  a  groan  that  had  escaped  him,  but  the 
sound  had  reached  her  dream,  and  for  an  instant 
he  feared  that  he  had  roused  her.  The  light  of 
early  morning  was  entering  the  room ;  and,  hold- 
ing his  breath,  he  gazed  at  her  haggardly  until 
her  face  turned  upon  the  pillow  and  was  hidden 
from  him  by  her  hair. 

The  day  was  bright  before  he  lost  conscious- 
ness, but  on  the  breakfast  table  were  more  blos- 
soms beside  her  plate,  and  a  parcel  of  new  books 
that,  all  unknown  to  her,  he  had  brought  for  her 
enlivenment.  The  idea  of  surprising  her  with 
these  had  occurred  to  him  early  in  the  engage- 
ment, and  the  binding  of  each  of  them  was  a  work 

191 


192  THE  WORLDLINGS 

of  art ;  ephemeral  fiction  had  seldom  worn  so  deli- 
cate a  dress. 

In  the  morning  the  sea  was  brilliant,  and  the 
myrtles  made  the  seat  a  haven  of  shade.  Await- 
ing their  moods  of  energy  were  the  nearer  of  the 
hill  villages,  and  the  still  nearer  charms  of  the 
olive  woods.  The  immediate  neighbourhood,  too, 
within  driving  distance  of  Monte  Carlo,  but  not 
numbered  among  the  resorts  of  the  fashionable 
world,  was  quite  unfamiliar  to  her,  and  each 
saunter  that  she  took  with  him  bevond  the  ear- 
den  discovered  a  fresh  and  quaint  attraction.  The 
novelty  of  the  scenes  to  the  man,  still  more  his 
keenness  of  observation,  enhanced  their  interest 
to  his  companion,  and  when  they  had  been  in- 
stalled in  the  villa  a  week,  she  was  startled  to 
reflect  how  quickly  seven  days  had  sped. 

As  for  Maurice,  he  would  have  asked  nothing 
better  than  to  be  allowed  to  pass  the  rest  of  his 
life  with  her  here.  Before  long  the  thought  of 
their  return  to  London  presented  itself  to  him 
almost  as  the  end  of  Eden,  and  the  pathos  of 
leave-taking  was  foreshadowed  by  every  sunset. 
Something  like  dread  oppressed  him  when,  in 
projecting  the  repetition  of  a  ramble  that  had 
delighted  them,  they  began  to  say:  "Let  us  go 
again  to-morrow,  for  we  mayn't  have  another 
chance!" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  193 

They  were  to  make  their  home  in  the  house  in 
Prince's  Gardens ;  and  when  the  honeymoon  had 
waned  and  the  roar  of  London  met  their  ears, 
and  the  rain  of  London  splashed  before  their 
eyes,  the  season  had  opened.  To  Helen  their  re- 
turn wras  far  more  agreeable  than  to  him.  The 
arrangement  of  the  rooms,  her  invitations,  and 
the  sense  of  her  new  power  all  amused  her.  There 
were  her  mother  and  her  friends  to  welcome,  a 
hundred  things  to  do ;  she  felt  very  young  during 
her  first  month  in  town.  Maurice  knew  no  eager- 
ness to  welcome  anybody;  and  excepting  Lady 
Wrens fordsley  and  Sir  Noel,  who  paid  his 
earliest  visit  to  the  house  as  a  guest,  their  visitors 
bored  him  considerably. 

A  letter  from  Rosa  might  be  looked  for  by 
any  post,  and  Maurice  quailed  in  anticipation  of 
meeting  her  again.  The  thought  of  her  had  been 
odious  to  him  latterly;  and  partly  because  of  his 
new  aversion,  partly  in  fear  that  their  next  inter- 
view would  confront  him  with  the  most  horrible 
task  in  his  experience,  he  had  from  day  to  day 
postponed  the  requisite  call  upon  her.  He  did 
not  fail  to  tell  himself  that  this  aversion  was  un- 
grateful and  unjust;  but  it  had  been  forming 
in  his  mind  gradually,  and  almost  unperceived, 
since  their  last  conversation,  and  now  he  hated  to 


194  THE  WORLDLINGS 

reflect  that  there  was  a  person  who  knew  that 
Helen  bore  a  name  to  which  she  had  no  right. 

When  the  note  arrived,  Rosa's  delay  in  sum- 
moning him  was  explained  by  the  fact  that  she, 
too,  had  been  to  the  Riviera.  She  had,  indeed, 
nursed  some  hope  that  a  happy  encounter  would 
have  affected  her  introduction  to  Helen  already, 
but  the  disappointment  had  damped  her  very 
slightly.  Before  her  departure  she  had  engaged 
a  French  maid,  who  spoke  a  little  English,  and, 
for  once,  she  had  enjoyed  herself.  She  had  lin- 
gered in  Paris  before  the  crossing,  and,  but  for 
her  visions  of  flunkeys  displaying  paradise,  she 
would  have  remained  there  longer  still. 

Maurice  was  received  with  an  amiability  which 
was  almost,  if  not  entirely,  genuine.  She  in- 
formed him  that  she  had  made  several  acquaint- 
ances during  her  absence,  and  had  won  twenty 
pounds  at  the  tables;  she  had  a  system — she  had 
found  it  out  herself.  It  was  so  simple  that  she 
was  surprised  it  hadn't  been  discovered  before! 
In  Paris  she  had  bought  hats,  and  a  lot  of  gloves 
scented  with  violets — the  perfume  was  everlast- 
ing; somebody  had  told  her  that  they  could  not 
be  got  anywhere  else.  London  was  abominable! 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders  at  it  with  a  grimace, 
and  looked  much  as  if  she  would  like  to  say.  "Mon 
Dieur 


THE  WORLDLINGS  195 

"And  you?"  she  inquired  in  a  tone  perhaps  a 
shade  less  genial.  "I  suppose  you're  very  happy, 
so  far,  eh?" 

"I  married  an  angel,"  said  Maurice,  for  an- 
swer. 

"Really?  Well,  when  am  I  going  to  see  her? 
Have  you  mentioned  me  to  her,  I  wonder?" 

"No,"  he  murmured,  "I  haven't." 

Her  eyebrows  rose.  "Well,  make  haste,"  she 
said.  "Everything  comes  to  one  who  waits — 
even  your  marriage !  You  don't  need  me  to  tell 
you  that  it's  quite  easy  now  for  you  to  make 
things  solid  at  once?  All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
get  your  wife  to  ask  me  to  your  own  house ;  the 
rest'll  follow,  if  she  asks  me  often  enough." 

"Look  here,"  said  Maurice.  "I — I  want  to 
talk  to  you  about  this — I've  been  thinking  about 
it.    You  see  the  difficultv?" 

"The  difficulty!"  she  echoed,  staring  at  him. 
"What  difficulty?  I  know  you  can  pile  up  diffi- 
culties as  well  as  any  man  I've  met,  but  if  you've 
found  another  now,  vou  take  the  cake!" 

"Listen  to  me  patiently,"  he  begged.  "Put 
yourself  in  my  place,  and  try  to  understand  what 
I  feel.  My  wife  is  more  to  me  than  I  can  faintly 
suggest — I  reverence  her;  my  love  for  her  is  a 
religion.  You  know  what  we  said  when  I  told 
you  that  I  cared  for  her;  we  said  that,  thinking 


196  THE  WORLDLINGS 

about  her  in  the  way  I  did,  I  should  shudder  at 
myself  each  time  I  kissed  her.  Well,  I  have  mo- 
ments, and  many  hours,  worse  than  we  foresaw 
— or  I  think  they're  worse — awful  hours!  But 
sometimes  I  forget — 'forget'  isn't  the  right  word, 
but  you  know  what  I  mean — sometimes  the  joy 
is  fiercer  than  the  shame,  and  I'm  happy  as  a 
drunkard  is  happy  while  his  bout  lasts.  If  you 
were  her  friend,  even  her  acquaintance,  if  you 
came  to  the  house,  if  I  heard  her  speak  of  you — 
well!  vou  must  understand  that  I  could  never 
forget  for  a  single  instant — my  imposture  would 
be  flaring  before  me  every  minute  of  my  life — I 
couldn't  bear  it."  She  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
interrupt  him.  "I  want  to  implore  you  to  waive 
vour  rights;  I  want  you  to  leave  me  what  I've 
got!" 

She  was  breathing  hard,  and  now  that  she  had 
the  opportunity,  she  found  it  difficult  to  reduce 
her  sudden  rage  to  phrases.  Maurice  was  in- 
tensely relieved  that  he  had  bethought  himself  of 
a  way  to  avoid  humiliating  her;  half  the  truth 
had  served,  though  the  suppression  of  his  other 
reason  deprived  him  of  all  defence.  He  sat  wait- 
ing for  the  storm  to  burst. 

"So,"  she  gasped,  "you're  a  liar,  eh?  You  have 
been  lying  to  me  all  the  time?  You  meant  to 
break  your  word  to  me  from  the  beginning?" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  197 

"That  isn't  so,"  he  said.  "When  I  passed  my 
word  I  meant  to  keep  it.  I  didn't  understand. 
...  I  didn't  realise  what  the  life  would  be." 

"You  meant  to  keep  it?  When — how  long 
ago?  You've  fooled  me  twenty  times  over.  You 
cheat,  to  double  on  me!" 

He  had  whitened  painfully,  but  his  tone  did 
not  lose  its  note  of  appeal:  "I  explained  to  you 
why  I  could  do  nothing  while  I  was  a  stranger 
in  society  myself.  If  I  could  have  helped  you 
then,  I  would  have  done  it." 

"You  can  help  me  now!" 

"Afterwards  it  became  more  difficult  still." 

"When  you  fell  in  love!"  she  said  with  a  harsh 
laugh. 

"I  have  done  the  most  for  you  that  I  could 
do — that  any  decent  man  could  have  done.  I 
swear  it!" 

"'Decent'!" 

"You  can  say  what  you  like  to  me.  Of  course, 
I'm  quite  at  your  mercy." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  of  your  heroics. 
'Yes,'  or  'no,'  that's  all  that's  necessary.  Are 
you  going  to  keep  your  promise,  or  aren't  you?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Maurice. 

"You  refuse?" 

"I  entreat  you  to  let  me  off." 


198  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed;  "I  want  plain  English. 
Do  you  refuse?" 

"If  you  force  me  to  it,"  he  said,  "I  must." 

She  stood  looking  at  him  speechlessly.  Then 
she  began  to  beat  her  hands  together,  and  her 
voice  came  in  jerks. 

"I  wish  that  I  had  left  you  the  beggar  I  found 
you,"  she  said;  "I  do!  I'd  rather  have  starved, 
myself,  than  given  a  fortune  to  you.  You  black- 
guard, you  cowardly  blackguard,  to  turn  your 
back  on  me  after  I've  'made'  you!" 

"I  shall  never  turn  my  back  on  you.  You 
know  it!" 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you!  Go!  I  hope 
I  shan't  see  you  again.  Your  conscience,  eh?  I 
should  trouble  vour  conscience  if  I  came?  It's 
a  fine  'conscience,'  on  my  soul!  It  doesn't  trouble 
you  to  know  that  you've  behaved  like  a  scoundrel 
to  me.  You've  got  everything,  haven't  you!  and 
so  you  can  snap  your  fingers  at  me.  I  suppose 
you  think  I  ought  to  be  grateful  that  you  give 
me  what  you  do?  When  are  you  going  to  cheat 
me  over  that  as  well — perhaps  your  miraculous 
wife  will  cost  more  than  von  think  and  vou  won't 
be  able  to  'afford'  so  much?  Treasures  like  her 
must  be  expensive.  But  take  care!  I  warn  you, 
you  aren't  dealing  with  a  child.  If  I  have  a 
penny  less  than  my  share  now,  or  a  penny  less 


THE  WORLDLINGS  199 

than  five  thousand  a  year  when  the  old  man  dies, 
it  shall  be  the  dearest  money  that  you  ever  stole !" 

"You  needn't  fear  that  I  shall  try  to  rob  you," 
he  said  quietly. 

"You  have  robbed  me,"  she  cried;  "you've 
robbed  me  of  my  chance!  What  are  you  wait- 
ing for?    I  told  you  to  go." 

He  wiped  his  face  dry  with  his  handkerchief, 
and  got  up. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said:  "I  deserve  all  you  say 
— there's  no  answer  I  can  make.  I  shall  always 
send  you  the  cheques  honestly;  if  you  ever  want 
to  see  me,  I'll  come." 

She  did  not  reply,  nor  did  she  turn  her  head 
as  he  crossed  the  room.  She  heard  him  fumbling 
with  the  door-knob,  and  then  the  sound  that  told 
her  she  was  alone.  An  hysterical  impulse  seized 
her  to  shriek  after  him  down  the  staircase,  and 
she  set  her  teeth  hard  in  her  handkerchief  until 
his  footsteps  had  died  away.  In  the  heat  of  her 
passion,  what  she  had  said  was  still  true :  she  felt 
that  she  would  rather  have  submitted  to  priva- 
tion than  have  shown  Maurice  the  way  to  wealth. 
The  thought  of  his  wife  seethed  in  her;  his  mar- 
riage had  ruined  every  hope  that  she  had  formed ! 
He  had  had  the  intention  of  playing  her  false 
from  the  time  he  fell  in  love  with  the  girl!  she 
was  convinced  of  it.     From  the  time  he  fell  in 


200  THE  WORLDLINGS 

love  his  standpoint  had  changed — he  had  wanted 
to  shake  himself  clear  of  the  past,  to  deceive  him- 
self into  believing  in  his  own  respectability! 

It  was  not  until  the  evening  that  she  was  able 
to  approach  the  subject  of  her  future  movements; 
and  then  the  idea  that  Maurice  would  rejoice  if 
she  died  relieved  her  slightly,  by  reason  of  her 
exuberant  health.  Of  course  he  must  be  praying 
that  something  might  happen  to  her — the  secret, 
and  the  money  would  be  entirely  his  own  then! 
She  had  not  thought  of  that  before.  She  trusted 
that  she  would  live  to  be  ninety  if  only  to  spite 
him.  The  five  thousand  a  year  must  come  to  her 
very  soon,  and,  bitter  though  her  disappointment 
was,  she  would,  at  least,  be  in  possession  of  a 
dazzling  income! 

The  question  was,  what  should  she  do  with 
herself  now?  The  term  for  which  she  had  ob- 
tained the  flat  had  almost  expired,  and  she  had 
meant  to  take  another  somewhere  else  and  to  ask 
him  for  the  loan  of  a  few  hundred  pounds  in  order 
to  furnish  it.  It  was  a  pity  that  she  had  not 
asked  him  by  letter  a  week  or  two  ago;  he  would 
probably  have  been  very  glad  of  a  chance  to 
propitiate  her!  In  the  circumstances  she  did  not 
think  she  would  take  a  flat  at  all;  there  was  no 
reason  for  her  to  remain  in  London.  She  could 
always   apprise  him   of  her  address  when  the 


THE  WORLDLINGS  201 

cheque  was  due ;  and  with  Emilie  to  get  the  tick- 
ets, and  direct  the  cabmen,  and  to  sit  respectfully 
next  her  on  occasion,  it  would  be  infinitely  livelier 
on  the  Continent. 

But  to  concentrate  her  mind  on  such  matters 
was  beyond  her  so  early,  and  anger  recurred  and 
mastered  her  again  and  again.  The  thought  of 
the  interview  kept  her  awake,  as  it  was  keeping 
Maurice  awake,  and  she  lay  cursing  him,  and  the 
wife  who  was  beside  him,  and  all  that  was  his. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Sometimes  Maurice  looked  at  his  wife  across 
a  ballroom  and  found  it  almost  as  difficult  to 
realise  their  relation  to  each  other  as  he  had  done 
when  they  left  the  church  together  on  their  wed- 
ding-day. That  after  four  months  of  matrimony 
there  could  still  be  moments  when  his  possession 
of  her  seemed  incredible  to  him  was  a  very  ex- 
traordinary thing;  and  if  his  love  had  been  a 
shade  less  strong,  it  would  have  been  an  entirely 
desirable  thing.  The  fact  was  due  to  various 
circumstances ;  she  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  in  England;  he  had  never  time  to  grow 
accustomed  to  any  one  of  the  frocks  she  wore; 
and  money  permitted  them  the  elegancies  and 
refinements  of  life  which  are  as  necessary  to  sus- 
tain sexual  illusion  as  is  a  hot -house  to  preserve 
an  exotic.  There  was  another  reason ;  the  vague 
promise,  that  during  the  honeymoon  he  had  more 
than  once  detected  in  her  eyes  and  caught  in  her 
voice,  had  remained  unfulfilled;  their  return  to 
society  had  been  made  too  soon  and  her  emotions 
were  still  nascent.  She  liked  him;  she  liked  him 
much  better  than  she  had  thought  she  would  like 


THE  WORLDLINGS  203 

him :  but  between  the  woman  and  her  potentiali- 
ties, the  influence  of  the  world  had  been  inter- 
posed— her  own  "world,"  the  little  frivolous  sec- 
tion that  she  had  been  taught  to  regard  as  all. 

One  day  he  told  her  so.  She  had  not  long  come 
in  from  her  drive,  and  they  were  having  tea  in  the 
boudoir.  Maurice  never  entered  it  unless  he  was 
invited,  and  this  afternoon  she  had  suggested  his 
joining  her  there.  By  a  mere  impulse,  which  she 
regretted  the  moment  it  was  obeyed,  she  asked 
him  if  he  was  content. 

"Content?"  he  said.  "I  suppose  a  man  who 
idolises  a  woman  as  I  idolise  you  can  hardly  ex- 
pect contentment.  I'm  intensely  grateful,  at  all 
events."  He  saw  that  she  was  annoyed,  and  he 
looked  at  her  penitently.     "I've  vexed  you?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  It's  very  flattering  to  hear 
that  I'm  still  adored  so  much." 

"I've  vexed  you,"  he  repeated.  "Put  out  your 
hand  and  say  you  forgive  me." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Philip;  what  have  I  to 
forgive?  .  .  .  Agatha  Savile  is  going  to  be  mar- 
ried; did  I  tell  you?  She's  going  to  marry  Percy 
Bligh." 

"Is  she?"  said  Maurice;  "what  a  fool  he  must 
be!" 

"I  don't  know;  Agatha  is  considered  very  at- 
tractive.   You  used  to  find  her  attractive  your- 


204  THE  WORLDLINGS 

self,  didn't  you?  I  remember,  when  we  saw  you 
in  Chapel  Street,  we  thought  it  was  going  to  be 
an  engagement." 

"Between  her  and  me?  I  was  in  love  with  you 
then." 

"It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  you,  the  aft- 
ernoon I  mean,"  she  said  indifferently. 

"I  know  it  was ;  all  the  same  I  was  in  love  with 
you  then.  I  didn't  understand  it,  but  I  was.  I 
thought  of  you  all  the  evening  and  wished  I 
hadn't  been  so  stupid.  You  began  to  talk  about 
buns,  and  I  couldn't  find  anything  to  say." 

"I  talked  about  buns?  Ileally?  How  bril- 
liant of  me;  no  wonder  I  made  an  impression!" 

"And  after  I  had  gone,  you  thought  I  was  go- 
ing to  marry  Agatha  Savile!  Good  heavens! 
But  I  wish  I  had  known  it — I  didn't  suppose  you 
were  thinking  about  me  at  all." 

"Well,  we  thought  that  Agatha  thought  so. 
And  I  daresay  she  would  have  made  you  happy. 
Perhaps  it's  a  pity  you  didn't.  .  .  .  What  a  clat- 
ter there  is  from  that  mews — these  houses  are  ab- 
surdly arranged!" 

"A  pity  for  which  of  us,  you  or  me?" 

"Oh,  for  you,  of  course.  I'm  content  enough," 
she  answered  with  the  slightest  shrug. 

Maurice  left  his  chair,  and  seated  himself  on 
the  couch  by  her  side.     She  did  not  turn  to  him, 


THE  WORLDLINGS  205 

and  there  was  a  pause  in  which  his  view  of  her 
profile  was  not  encouraging. 

"I'm  going  to  explain  myself,"  he  said;  "I'm 
not  going  to  leave  you  the  right  to  speak  to  me 
in  that  tone.  You  shall  know  just  what  I  meant 
— how  much,  and  how  little.  I  wish  you'd  look  at 
me ;  I  can  only  see  the  tip  of  your  nose,  and  your 
eyelashes!" 

She  looked  towards  him  reluctantly,  like  a  child 
who  is  dreading  a  rebuke. 

*Well?"  she  murmured,  folding  her  hands. 
"Does  that  suit  you  better?  I  know  all  you're 
going  to  say — that  I'm  cold  and  horrid,  and  don't 
deserve  anything  at  all." 

"Helen,"  he  said,  "when  I  asked  you  to  be  my 
wife  I  knew  you  didn't  care  for  me  as  I  cared 
for  you — I  knew  it;  but  I  hoped  that  the  force 
of  my  love  would  rouse  yours.  I  thought  I  could 
make  you  love  me,  because  by  everything  I  did, 
by  every  word  I  spoke  to  you,  in  our  life  together, 
you  would  understand  that  I  worshipped  you." 

She  nodded.  The  tip  of  her  nose  and  the  curve 
of  her  cheek  were  again  all  that  he  could  see. 
There  was  a  bowl  of  heliotrope  against  the  couch 
■ — there  always  was — and  its  scent  seemed  to 
grow  stronger  and  confuse  him. 

"While  we  were  away  I  believed  that  my  hope 
was  going  to  be  fulfilled.    There  isn't  a  shade  of 


206  THE  WORLDLINGS 

reproach  in  my  mind;  you  are — you  are  charm- 
ing; hut  before  we  came  back  to  town  you  were 
sometimes  more  than  'charming.'  I  think  if  I 
could  have  kept  you  all  to  myself  my  dream  might 
have  come  partly  true — I  think  you  might  have 
grown  fonder  of  me  ...  .  That's  all.  You 
know  I'd  rather  be  tolerated  by  you  than  loved 
by  any  other  woman." 

Her  fingers  were  playing  an  imaginary  stac- 
cato passage  on  her  lap,  and  after  a  moment  she 
said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  between  contrition 
and  defiance: 

"I  have  done  my  best;  it's  not  my  fault;  I 
can't  help  it  if  I'm  not  nice." 

"You  sav  it  as  if  I  had  blamed  vou,"  said 
Maurice.  "I  know  it's  not  your  fault;  it's  the 
fault  of  the  life  we  lead — it  doesn't  give  me  a 
chance.  What  do  I  see  of  you?  You  are  out 
alone,  or  we  are  out  together,  or  there  are  people 
here — you  belong  to  society  more  than  to  me; 
we  live  in  a  crowd.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  you  are  tired,  it  is  my  privilege  to  bring 
you  home." 

"One  has  to  do  things,"  she  faltered ;  "you  don't 
want  me  to  neglect  our  duties?  Besides,  soon  I 
— I  shan't  be  able  to  go  out  so  much.  Don't  be 
cross  with  me  yet,  Philip.  If  you  knew  how 
frightened  I  am!" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  207 

Maurice  caught  her  to  him,  and  they  sat  silent, 
both  thinking,  while  he  stroked  her  hair.  He 
had  hoped  that  they  would  be  spared  a  child. 
Since  he  had  known  that  he  was  expected  to  re- 
joice, he  had  hoped  that  at  least  they  might  not 
have  a  son ;  and  suddenly  his  heart  tightened  with 
the  fear  that  the  undesired  life  might  rob  him  of 
the  woman's.  Till  now  he  had  not  thought  of 
that.  He  was  ashamed  that  he  had  had  the  cruel- 
ty to  own  she  was  not  perfect ;  she  might  die !  Her 
breath  was  on  his  neck — and  when  the  spring 
came  she  might  be  breathless  and  stone  cold;  per- 
haps a  boy  would  have  entered  the  world,  to  bear 
a  title  to  which  he  had  no  right,  and  Helen  would 
be  in  her  grave !  If,  during  the  few  minutes  that 
Maurice  sat  there  holding  her  in  his  arms,  a 
prayer  could  have  undone  their  marriage,  he 
would  have  kissed  her  for  the  last  time  and  ut- 
tered it. 

He  never  remonstrated  with  her  again  about 
her  amusements.  The  fear  of  losing  her  couldn't 
be  banished,  and  there  was  often  something  ter- 
rible to  him  in  the  sound  of  her  laughter,  in  her 
loveliness  itself.  Let  her  lead  the  life  that  pleased 
her  best!  He  attempted  to  view  the  situation 
from  her  own  standpoint,  and  he  felt  that  he  had 
been  selfish  and  exigent  from  the  first;  she  had 
never  affected  to  be  fond  of  him — his  continual 


208  THE  WORLDLINGS 

appeals  to  a  tenderness  that  she  couldn't  force 
must  have  wearied  her  beyond  endurance. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  remorse  began  to 
wrench  the  man  body  and  soul.  He  was  no  long- 
er gripped  by  it  in  hours;  it  racked  him  without 
cessation.  If  she  died?  No  one  would  know — 
people  would  condole  with  him — in  the  eyes  of 
her  mother,  of  everybody,  he  would  be  a  bereaved 
husband — but  in  his  own  sight  he  would  have 
murdered  her.  As  surely  as  he  had  been  a  villain 
to  make  her  his  wife,  he  would  be  her  murderer 
if  she  died.  Why  hadn't  he  conquered  the  temp- 
tation, why  hadn't  he  himself  died  before  he  fell 
to  it! 

His  guilt  haunted  him.  It  was  with  him  as 
he  watched  her  smiles  where  the  newest  band 
was  playing  the  latest  valse;  it  menaced  him  at 
At  Homes  while  a  comedian  was  being  humorous 
at  the  piano;  he  saw  it  in  the  dusk  of  the  skirt- 
filled  brougham,  heavy  with  flowers'  scent,  as 
they  were  borne  through  the  empty  streets  from 
one  hot  drawiug-room  to  another.  And  if  she 
lived,  what  would  he  have  gained  then  by  such  a 
marriage?  At  any  moment  now  he  would  have 
undone  it,  had  the  past  been  recoverable.  To 
him  it  had  given  minutes  of  delirium,  and  her  it 
had  profaned  and  bored.  He  knew  that  if  he  had 
always  loved  her  as  he  did  to-day,  he  wouldn't 


THE  WORLDLINGS  209 

have  taken  her  as  she  had  come  to  him;  it  was 
horrible  to  love  her  so  and  to  feel  that  she  only 
yielded  to  him  by  constraint.  There  was  never 
a  dawn  when  her  lips  bade  him  "Good-night"  and 
he  lay  staring  into  the  dim  luxury  of  the  room, 
that  he  would  not  have  thanked  God  to  know 
that  he  would  wake  alone  in  the  room  with  the 
mud  floor  at  Du  Toit's  Pan — wake  to  see  the 
sunlight  on  the  morning  after  Rosa  Fleming's 
proposal  to  him  and  to  find  that  all  the  rest  had 
been  a  dream. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

He  had  heard  from  Rosa  once  since  their  rup- 
ture— she  had  written  a  few  curt  lines  from  Paris 
on  the  subject  of  her  forthcoming  "dividend,"  as 
she  called  it.  In  August  he  received  an  intima- 
tion concerning  the  payment,  due  on  the  first  of 
September,  and  by  the  second  note  he  learned 
that  she  was  in  Aix-les-Bains. 

In  October  he  and  Helen  went  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  at  Whichcote,  and  to  Helen,  seven  months 
married,  life  in  her  former  home  was  very  sug- 
gestive. She  wanted  to  tell  him  what  she  felt, 
but  her  impressions  eluded  her  as  soon  as  her 
tongue  tried  to  touch  them.  Her  words  implied 
that  she  had  found  the  past  much  sweeter  than 
the  present,  and  this  wasn't  what  she  meant.  She 
knew  so  well  what  she  meant  that  she  demanded 
divination,  and  was  aggrieved. 

Of  Seymour  she  had  neither  seen  nor  thought 
much  since  her  marriage,  but  now,  in  this  house, 
the  recollection  of  the  feeling  she  had  had  for 
him  was  a  frequent  vexation  to  her.  Reviewing 
the  young  man  who  had  dined  once  or  twice  at 
Prince's  Gardens,  he  seemed  a  different  person 

210 


THE  WORLDLINGS  211 

from  the  cousin  with  whom  Whichcote  was  asso- 
ciated in  her  mind.  It  astonished  her  to  realise 
how  stupid  she  had  been  about  him ;  it  astonished 
her  still  more  to  realise  how  recently  she  had  been 
stupid. 

To  Maurice,  Oakenhurst  was  merely  painful 
— additionally  painful  because  the  Baronet's  eag- 
erness for  a  grandson  necessitated  his  affecting 
to  share  the  hope.  To  the  woman,  there  was  a 
magic  in  every  familiar  sound  and  scent. 

One  morning,  before  the  sun  had  risen,  the 
trilling  of  a  bird  roused  her,  and  though  she  could 
not  guess  what  bird  it  was,  its  notes  requickened 
all  the  sentiment  of  her  childhood;  in  sensation 
she  was  a  child  once  more.  And  then  gradually, 
while  the  bird  called,  her  bosom  swelled  with  an 
infinite  yearning,  or  with  ecstasy — the  moments 
were  ineffable — and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
She  caught  the  notes  again  some  hours  later,  and 
longed  for  the  emotion  that  uplifted  her  when 
all  save  herself  and  the  bird  had  slept;  but  she 
strove  vainly  to  recover  it,  and,  in  the  hum  of 
noon,  could  not  even  remember  of  what  it  was 
that  she  had  been  made  to  think.  On  the  mor- 
row, too,  she  woke  to  the  enchantment,  and  hence- 
forth woke  to  wait  for  it.  A  shyness  that  she 
could  not  account  for  compelled  her  to  keep  the 
strange  joy  a  secret.     But  she  never  failed  to 


212  THE  WORLDLINGS 

listen  for  the  high,  clear  call  to  thrill  the  silence 
above  the  sleeping  lawn;  and  the  bird  and  the 
soul  of  the  woman  sang  together  ever}'  day. 

Lady  Wrensfordsley  said  to  Maurice:  "Philip, 
you  look  worse  and  worse;  I  wish  you'd  go  up  to 
town  and  see  a  doctor." 

"It's  nothing,"  he  answered;  "I'm  anxious 
about  her,  that's  all." 

"But  you're  absurd,"  she  said;  "I  never  heard 
anything  so  foolish.  You'll  worry  yourself  into 
a  serious  illness  if  you  aren't  careful ;  and  you'll 
alarm  her  besides." 

He  took  the  hint,  and  Helen  never  suspected 
that  he  feared  for  her  life,  nor  that  he  dreaded  the 
thing  for  which  he  was  supposed  to  hope.  In  her 
own  breast  there  was  no  longer  fear.  Solitude 
charmed  her,  and  she  had  moods  in  which  she 
loved  to  escape  to  the  room  that  had  been  her 
nursery,  and  to  sit  at  the  window  with  a  book, 
which  she  never  read,  gazing  between  the  bars. 
In  imagination  she  was  a  mother  already,  and  her 
lips  formed  kisses,  and  her  arms  were  filled.  A 
son?  Yes,  for  Philip's  sake,  she  would  like  a 
son!  But  for  her  own  she  cared  little;  it  was 
enough  that  it  would  be  her  child — a  girl  would 
be  as  wondrous  as  a  boy.  She  would  have  loathed 
herself  in  remembering  that  she  had  once  trem- 
bled with  aversion,  but  that  it  seemed  to  her  that 


THE  WORLDLINGS  213 

the  frivolous  girl  who  had  trembled  had  been 
somebody  else. 

As  the  year  drew  near  its  close,  a  richer  happi- 
ness than  she  had  ever  known  pervaded  her,  and 
her  mind  turned  to  Maurice  with  a  strange  per- 
sistence. She  liked  him  to  caress  her;  she  noticed 
that  he  caressed  her  less  often  than  he  had  done ; 
one  day  she  cried  a  little  at  the  thought  that  she 
had,  perhaps,  estranged  him  by  her  tepidity.  But 
his  manner  towards  her  was  so  tender  that  she 
dismissed  the  idea  as  morbid,  although  she  re- 
mained conscious  of  a  subtle  difference  in  him. 

She  felt  that  he  had  always  been  more  to  her 
than  she  had  expressed.  In  intercourse  with  the 
Ego  there  are  few  revelations ;  the  sincere  diarist 
does  not  write,  "This  afternoon  my  feelings  be- 
gan to  change":  she  felt  that  he  had  always  been 
more  to  her  than  she  had  expressed.  A  shallow 
confidant  would  have  told  her  that  this  was  the 
beginning  of  love,  but  it  would  have  been  untrue ; 
it  was  the  beginning  of  self-knowledge. 

When  the  new  year  was  three  months  old,  the 
man's  fear  for  her  had  culminated  in  an  agony 
of  needless  terror,  and  he  was  congratulated  on 
the  birth  of  a  son.  Every  cry  that  had  reached 
him  had  torn  his  heart;  he  had  prayed  that  he 
might  writhe  in  hell  if  his  torments  would  spare 
her  a  pang.     He  fell   on  his  knees — scarcely 


211  THE  WORLDLINGS 

knowing  that  he  did  so — and  thanked  God  that 
she  was  safe;  he  supplicated  that  his  sin  should 
never  be  visited  upon  his  child.  Now  on  the  pres- 
ervation of  his  secret  depended  the  peace  of  the 
wife  whom  he  had  bought,  and  the  future  of  the 
boy  who  might  grow  to  love  him.  He  crept  up 
the  staircase  guiltily  to  look  at  them.  Like  the 
eves  of  all  infants,  the  baby's  were  old  with  wis- 
dom,  and  Maurice  could  imagine  that  there  was 
comprehension  in  their  gaze. 

Again  and  again  he  repented  the  steps  that  had 
led  from  the  overseer's  billet  to  Prince's  Gardens. 
Alone  in  the  room  that  was  called  the  smoking- 
room,  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  he  sat  and  thought. 
He  had  won  all  that  he  had  wished  for — the 
wealth  and  the  woman — and  he  was  more  wretch- 
ed than  when  he  had  lacked  a  dinner.  He  won- 
dered whether  he  would  have  repented  if  be  had 
avoided  marriage;  he  had  been  content  enough 
in  the  early  days  in  Bury  Street.  Would  it  have 
lasted,  that  sensual  satisfaction,  or  would  con- 
science have  cursed  him  anyhow  in  time?  He 
could  not  say,  but  he  knew  that,  as  it  was,  his 
Nemesis  had  arisen  from  his  love.  From  the 
moment  that  the  woman  quickened  his  higher 
self,  his  punishment  had  begun.  The  growth  of 
shame,  the  yearning  to  undo,  the  hopelessness  in 


THE  WORLDLINGS  215 

which  he  had  held  her  body  and  hungered  for  her 
soul — always  through  her,  his  sufferings! 

The  consciousness  might  have  turned  a  feebler 
love  to  hatred;  it  heightened  Maurice's  devotion 
to  her.  A  feebler  love  might  have  reflected  that 
a  woman  who  married  for  convenience  was  less 
pure  than  a  man  who  was  mastered  by  passion; 
Maurice  had  not  married  from  passion,  but  he 
felt  that  their  union  would  have  degraded  him, 
even  had  he  been  worthy  of  her,  and  he  would 
see  rto  speck  on  his  wife ;  she  belonged  to  a  world 
in  which  marriages  of  convenience  were  usual. 
In  his  darkness  there  was  only  one  pale  gleam  of 
comfort — he  had  ceased  to  importune  her  for  af- 
fection and  she  would  have  the  tranquility  that 
she  was  entitled  to  expect.  "It's  not  my  fault — 
I  can't  help  it!"  she  had  said,  and  he  had  never 
forgotten  the  words;  they  sounded  more  piteous 
to  him  each  time  that  he  recalled  them.  No,  she 
couldn't  help  it.  He  had  been  an  ingrate  to 
complain  of  what  he  had  been  so  eager  to  acquire ! 

Upstairs  she  lay  thinking  of  her  baby  and  him. 
The  love  of  a  parent  for  a  new-born  infant  is 
egotism,  but  it  is  egotism  sublimed.  To  Helen's 
outlook  the  little  living  bundle  was  transfiguring : 
life  took  a  new  aspect,  as  a  landscape  changes  at 
sunrise,  and  the  light  of  the  child  shone  on  every 
hour  that  she  foresaw. 


216  THE  WORLDLINGS 

That  strange  things  appeared  so  natural  was 
the  strangest  feature  of  this  time.  She  listened 
for  Maurice's  hand  on  the  door-knob,  and  knew 
no  astonishment  at  her  wistfulness;  she  smiled  to 
hear  him  enter  the  room — the  door  was  hidden 
from  her  where  she  lay — without  reflecting  that 
the  pleasure  was  a  novel  one;  before  he  was  ad- 
mitted in  the  morning  she  parted  with  the  mirror 
slowly,  and  it  surprised  the  nurses  much  more 
than  her  that  she  was  never  so  fastidious  as  when 
the  expected  visitor  was  her  husband. 

The  fulfilment  of  his  desire  elated  Sir  Noel 
mightily.  And  seventy-eight  though  he  was,  he 
travelled  to  town  to  shake  silver  bells  at  his 
"grandson."  Three  weeks  afterwards  Helen  laid 
them  in  a  drawer.  The  old  man  lived  on,  but  the 
baby  died. 

She  had  barely  regained  her  strength  when  the 
blow  fell,  and  she  reeled  under  it.  For  the  first 
time  she  perceived  the  feebleness  of  her  faith  and 
wished  that  it  were  stronger;  for  the  first  time  she 
cried  bitterly  for  an  answer  to  one  of  the  enigmas 
which  she  had  unthinkingly  accepted.  The 
thoughtlessness  of  the  favoured,  and  the  resigna- 
tion of  the  devout  might  be  mistaken  for  each 
other  but  for  the  environment  that  reveals  the 
difference.  It  had  seemed  to  her  a  regrettable 
necessity  that  people  should  die,  but  things  had 


THE  WORLDLINGS  217 

been  ordered  so.  People  died,  and  some  were 
born  to  wealth,  and  others  to  want;  it  was  the 
way  of  the  world — God's  way,  one  heard  on  Sun- 
day, if  the  weather  was  fine ;  the  poignancy  of  it 
had  never  touched  her  hitherto.  Now,  at  the  spur 
of  personal  pain,  her  mind  leapt  the  barrier  that 
had  hedged  her  sympathies ;  now  she  saw  that  her 
religion  of  an  ivory  prayer-book  and  a  church 
parade  was  a  meaningless  thing. 

Her  own  child!  Why  had  he  been  born  if  he 
was  to  be  snatched  from  her  as  soon  as  her  arms 
had  held  him? 

It  was  also  the  first  time  that  she  had  instinct- 
ively turned  to  Maurice  to  share  her  emotions; 
and  bv  the  ironv  of  circumstance,  she  turned  to 
him  at  a  crisis  when  he  was  least  able  to  fulfil  her 
demands.  He  had  been  grieved  by  their  loss, 
more  grieved  than  he  would  have  believed  pos- 
sible a  month  earlier — nature  was  stronger  than 
reason — but  between  the  standpoints  of  the  moth- 
er who  had  longed  and  the  father  who  had  shud- 
dered, the  disparity  was  very  great.  He  did  his 
best  to  soothe  her;  like  Lady  Wrensfordsley,  he 
found  phrases  of  consolation;  his  pity  was  ap- 
parent. But  her  senses  had  never  been  more 
acute — and  he  did  not  once  say  "We  have  still 
each  other." 

She  had  clung  to  him  sobbing  violently;  she 


218  THE  WORLDLINGS 

withdrew  from  his  embrace  telling  him  that  she 
Mas  calmer.  She  was,  in  truth,  calmer,  for  the 
vehemence  of  her  despair  had  worn  her  out,  but 
she  felt  more  hopeless  than  before  her  outburst 
— more  blankly  alone. 

She  did  not  turn  to  him  for  support  again.  He 
saw  how  she  continued  to  suffer,  and  their  divi- 
sion looked  wider  to  him  still;  he  felt  that  it  was 
only  on  impulse  she  even  sought  comfort  at  his 
hands.  The  woman  who  had  sought  a  thousand 
assurances  of  love,  suffered  doubly  to  think  she 
was  no  longer  so  dear  to  him. 

She  could  not  blame  him  for  it,  she  could  blame 
him  for  nothing — his  consideration  was  undimin- 
ished; he  remained  ready  to  gratify  any  whim. 
But  it  was  not  his  indulgence  that  she  desired 
now,  it  was  his  love.  She  loved  him,  and  she 
knew  it.  Many  times  he  found  her  crying  and 
believed  her  in  thought  by  the  grave,  when  her 
mind  was  filled  by  him;  many  times  she  petulant- 
ly refused  a  suggestion  for  her  welfare  when  she 
would  have  welcomed  an  appeal  to  her  unselfish- 
ness. 

It  was  new  to  her,  wonderfully  new,  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  man's  mastery.  To  feel  that  if 
her  husband  had  cared  for  her  as  he  used  to  care, 
there  could  be  no  deeper  happiness  on  earth  than 
such  subjection,  was  so  strange  that  she  did  not 


THE  WORLDLINGS  219 

recognise  herself.  She  had  contemplated  love, 
as  she  had  contemplated  misery,  from  the  shelter 
of  a  pleasance;  so  faintly  had  the  forces  of  life 
touched  her,  that  she  had  been  deceived  bv  her 
fancy  for  her  cousin.  To-day  the  fruit  of  knowl- 
edge  had  been  bitten  to  the  core;  she  knew  its 
good  and  its  evil.  To-day  she  was  a  woman  alive 
to  her  own  soul. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  London  season  meant  little  more  to  her 
that  year  than  it  means  to  the  majority  in  Lon- 
don. Like  them,  she  read  in  the  papers  of  others' 
entertainments.  Many  considered  that  she  car- 
ried her  mourning  for  an  infant  too  far,  and  re- 
monstrated with  her.  Agatha — now  Mrs.  Bligh 
— remonstrated  with  all  the  freedom  of  a  bosom 
friend  who  had  hoped  to  be  Lady  Jardine.  She 
said:  "Do  you  think  it  right,  dear,  to  go  to  such 
a  length?  How  dull  it  must  be  for  your  poor 
husband!" 

Of  a  truth,  after  they  returned  from  a  sojourn 
on  the  south  coast,  Maurice  had  begged  his  wife 
to  seek  distraction,  though  not  for  his  own  sake. 
She  had  replied  listlessly  that  town  was  hateful 
to  her  and  that  she  looked  forward  to  escaping 
from  it  again.  Would  she  care  to  go  at  once? 
he  asked;  but  she  shook  her  head — she  would  wait 
until  September,  when  they  were  going  to  Pang- 
bourne.  Her  lethargy  seemed  unconquerable, 
and  by  Lady  Wrensfordsley's  advice,  he  induced 
her  to  ask  a  few  persons  to  stay  with  them  there. 

He  was  surprised  one  afternoon  in  Pall  Mall 

220 


THE  WORLDLINGS  221 

to  see  Rosa  in  a  hansom ;  he  had  not  known  that 
she  was  back  in  England.  It  surprised  him  more 
that  she  bowed,  and  signed  to  the  driver  to  stop. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  shake  hands  with  me?" 
she  said,  leaning  forward. 

"Oh,  why,  yes;  of  course!  How  d'ye  do?" 
The  sudden  meeting  embarrassed  him. 

"I  was  sorry  to  see  you'd  lost  your  baby,"  she 
added,  while  he  still  sought  for  civilities. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  ...  "I  had  no  idea  you  were 
in  London  again." 

"I  came  back  in  June,  just  after  you  sent  the 
last  money.  I'm  at  the  Langham.  How  are 
you? — you  don't  look  very  fit." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,  thanks.  You — you  look 
better  than  ever." 

She  smiled  radiantlv. 

"Yes,  I  feel  very  good,"  she  said.  "There's 
no  news,  I  suppose?" 

"'News'?" 

"How's  Sir  Noel?" 

"He's  all  right." 

"And  your  wife?" 

"Thanks." 

There  was  a  second's  pause,  in  which  Maurice 
wondered  what  her  amiabilitv  meant,  and  her 
eyes  suggested  that  there  was  something  that  she 
was  trying  to  say. 


222  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"I'm  very  glad  to  have  seen  you  again,"  she 

said.    "I We  oughtn't  to  quarrel :  I  lost  my 

head.  I  hope  you'll  look  me  up  one  day.  Will 
you? 

He  wasn't  sure  whether  so  much  forgiveness 
was  welcome,  or  the  reverse,  hut  he  was  instantly 
touched  hy  it. 

"I  shall  he  delighted.  It's  very  good  of  you 
to  overlook  everything." 

"Come  in  anv  dav  you  like.    Do!    I'm  always 

www  * 

in  ahout  five.  I  won't  keep  you  now.  So  long!" 
She  put  out  her  hand  again,  and  he  continued 
his  way,  still  undecided  whether  he  was  pleased 
to  have  met  her.  The  sting  of  their  last  interview 
had  not  long  been  mollified  by  a  feeling  of  thank- 
fulness that  no  further  variance  could  occur  be- 
tween them ;  and  the  reconciliation  might  be  only 
a  prelude  to  renewed  entreaties. 

Rosa  drove  on  in  the  best  of  spirits.  She  had 
wished  for  such  a  meeting  for  the  last  fortnight, 
for  she  had  now  the  strongest  motive  for  desiring 
Helen's  acquaintance,  and  was  sanguine  of  over- 
coming his  objections  when  he  understood  the 
situation.  She  had  considered  writing  to  him, 
but  the  course  presented  difficulties,  and  as  the 
matter  wasn't  urgent,  she  had  done  no  more  than 
play  with  the  pen.  So  much  had  she  wanted  to 
see  him  that  she  had  seldom  gone  out  without 


THE  WORLDLING^  223 

hoping  for  it ;  but  this  afternoon,  as  it  happened, 
she  had  not  thought  of  him,  and  her  luck  exhilar- 
ated her  the  more  because  it  was  unexpected. 

While  the  hansom  bore  her  back  to  the  hotel, 
she  foresaw  herself  explaining  the  circumstances 
and  making  her  request  when  he  came.  But  when 
he  did  come,  after  a  few  days,  and  she  reflected 
that  he  would  come  again,  she  began  to  think  that 
it  would  be  more  tactful  to  arrive  at  the  request 
by  degrees. 

"I  asked  vou  if  there  was  any  news  when  I 
met  you,"  she  said;  "you  might  return  the  com- 
pliment. What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  I 
was  on  the  verge  of  a  big  coup?  If  things  go  as 
■ — as  I  expect  them  to  go,  you  won't  be  the  only 
successful  one.  It's  on  the  cards  that  I  make  a 
fine  match!" 

It  gratified  her  intensely  to  tell  him  that  she 
had  been  independent  of  his  offices;  if  she  could 
have  done  without  them  altogether,  the  moment 
would  have  gratified  her  even  more.  But  then 
he  wouldn't  have  been  here! 

"I'm  heartily  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Maurice; 
"I  thought  vou  looked  very  satisfied  with  your- 
self."  He  felt  as  awkward  with  her  as  he  had 
done  in  the  streets,  and  it  amazed  him  that  she 
could  talk  so  easily. 

"I  met  him  at  Monte  Carlo.    He  hasn't  popped 


224  THE  WORLDLINGS 

■ — of  course  it  takes  longer  because  of  my  posi- 
tion— but  he's  wildly  in  love.  My!  isn't  he!  He 
sends  me  flowers,  and  comes  to  tea.  1  talk  of  my 
poor  husband,  'Colonel  Fleming'  .  .  .  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  America.  I  think  it'll  be  all 
right.  ...  It  was  very  funny  at  the  beginning 
at  Monte  Carlo;  I  caught  him  mashing  a  lady 
who  was  a  'lady'  a  colonel's  widow  couldn't  know ; 
Emilie  had  told  me  about  her.  My  face  was  a 
treat.  So  was  his  when  I  shivered!  The  shiver 
settled  his  doubts  about  me  for  the  time  being. 
.  .  .  Still,  he  hasn't  come  to  the  point,  near  as  he 
is  to  it ;  shivers  are  all  very  well,  but  he'd  like  to 
see  some  connections — he's  a  baronet." 

"Oh?"  said  Maurice;  "what's  his  name — I  may 
ask,  mayn't  I?" 

"I  think  you  know  him — he  has  mentioned  you. 
He — er — isn't  young,  but  he's  lively  for  his  age. 
I  guess  plenty  of  society  girls — girls  whose  peo- 
ple have  got  titles  themselves — would  jump  at 
him.    It's  Sir  Adolphus  Bligh." 

Maurice  looked  blank.  Sir  Adolphus  was  an 
old  friend  of  Lady  Wrensfordsley's,  and  a  fre- 
quent visitor  at  Prince's  Gardens.  He  was,  as 
Rosa  said,  lively  for  his  age — too  lively  in  the 
opinion  of  women  who  were  constantly  compelled 
to  affect  short-sightedness  in  public — but  he  had 
been  regarded  as  a  confirmed  widower  for  years. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  225 

The  suggestion  that  his  folly  might  reach  the 
length  of  marriage  with  an  adventuress  was  un- 
pleasantly strange.  What  a  nutter  the  marriage 
would  cause,  although  no  one  would  know  the 
truth  about  her! 

"It's  good  enough,"  she  said,  complacently, 
"eh?  Monkspool  is  nearly  as  old  as  Croft  Court, 
isn't  it,  and  he's  very  rich — there's  no  doubt  about 
it,  I  suppose?" 

"Sir  Adolphus  has  six  thousand  a  year,  and 
the  best  shooting  in  Hampshire,"  he  answered. 
"Of  course  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  you 
■ — pecuniarily,  though  I  should  have  thought  your 
prospects  were  all  right  without  him." 

"Ah,  pecuniarily!"  she  said.  "There's  more 
than  a  pecuniary  pull.     Look  what  I  shall  be!" 

Maurice  twisted  his  moustache.  He  was  sin- 
cerely sorry  that  she  had  imparted  her  news. 
Events  must  take  their  course,  but  he  would  have 
preferred  to  remain  ignorant  of  their  drift  until 
he  heard  of  the  wedding. 

The  perception  that  he  had  not  said  quite  all 
he  thought  made  Rosa  ponder  when  he  had  gone. 
She  could  not  believe  that  he  would  demur  any 
more  when  she  pointed  out  the  immediate  value 
of  his  wife's  recognition,  but  she  was  glad  that 
she  had  refrained  from  asking  for  it  to-day.  And 
;f  the  distastefulness  of  suing  to  him  again  proved 


226  THE  WORLDLINGS 

unnecessary  after  all,  her  triumph  would  be  com- 
plete. She  would  have  forgiven  like  a  Christian, 
and  would  ultimately  tender  his  wife  her  finger- 
tips as  Lady  Bligh! 

Her  joy  had  been  intoxicating  when  she  saw 
that  her  elderly  admirer's  intentions  were  serious 
— prior  to  the  shiver  of  which  she  had  spoken 
she  had  had  some  doubt  of  the  nature  of  his  in- 
tentions ;  and  his  delay  in  confessing  himself  had 
surprised  her.  Experience  had  taught  her  that 
in  love  matters  the  elderly  were  generally  the 
expeditious.  That  the  tardiness  was  attributable 
to  his  reluctance  to  take  a  wife  of  whom  nobody 
knew  anything  had  not  occurred  to  her  imme- 
diately— it  had  been  his  discreet  inquiries,  his  evi- 
dent eagerness  to  discover  a  mutual  friend,  that 
supplied  the  hint — and,  as  was  natural  in  a  wom- 
an of  her  class,  she  under-estimated  the  reluc- 
tance still.  The  gay  old  gentleman  with  the 
waxed  mustache  and  the  big  picotee  was  so  ob- 
viously fascinated  that  it  seemed  to  her  that  such 
considerations  could  weigh  with  him  very  little. 

Nevertheless,  though  Sir  Adolphus  called  two 
or  three  times  in  the  next  week,  his  proposal  re- 
mained unuttered,  and  she  dropped  a  line  to 
Maurice  begging  him  to  remember  that  they  were 
reconciled.  She  would  not  humiliate  herself  to 
him  till  she  was  certain  that  it  was  unavoidable, 


THE  WORLDLINGS  W 

but  the  more  often  they  met  in  the  meanwhile  the 
easier  the  petition  would  be  to  make. 

She  was  a  very  handsome  woman,  and  a  wom- 
an who  could  guard  her  vocabulary  when  need- 
ful. Sir  Adolphus  was  in  truth  allured;  his  strug- 
gles were  pathetic.  The  idea  of  re-marrying  had 
not  crossed  his  mind  till  recently,  and  an  aphor- 
ism of  his  early  widowhood,  "The  man  who  loses 
his  wife  and  marries  again  did  not  deserve  to  lose 
his  wife,"  had  been  only  the  frank  expression  of 
his  views.  Now,  however,  he  meditated  that  the 
property  would  go  to  his  nephew  Percy  and  that 
it  was  an  Englishman's  duty  to  try  to  avert  the 
succession  of  a  prig  who  eyed  him  with  reproval, 
and  had  "Percv"  for  a  front  name.  He  derived 
malicious  pleasure  from  allowing  the  news  of  his 
attachment  to  reach  the  young  man's  ears;  and 
among  the  Saviles  the  consternation  was  extreme. 

When  the  season  was  almost  over  and  town  had 
already  thinned,  Helen  received  from  Lady 
Wrensfordsley  a  letter  that  contained  the  follow- 
ing passage: 

"Clara  Savile  has  confided  to  me  that  Sir  Dolly 
talks  of  marrying!  and  some  person  that  nobody 
ever  heard  of  before ! !  You  may  imagine  what  a 
state  they  are  in.  If  he  should  have  a  son,  Agatha 
and  her  husband  will  be  simply  beggars — and  one 


228  THE  WORLDLINGS 

never  knows.  I  believe  they  have  only  got  her 
settlement  to  live  on  till  the  succession.  Her 
mother  positively  shed  tears!  I  was  quite  sorry 
for  her.  You  would  be  doing  a  real  charity  if  you 
tacked  on  his  name  to  the  people  you  expect  at 
Pangbourne.  They  are  moving  heaven  and  earth 
to  get  him  out  of  the  woman's  reach,  and  think 
that  if  he'd  accept  anybody's  invitation  it  would 
be  yours.  I  said  I  would  mention  it  to  you.  If 
you  are  ordering  anything  at  Lady  Pontefract's, 
please  tell  her  that  I  consider  her  bill  outrageous. 
Really  I  shall  have  to  give  up  dealing  at  my 
friends'!  I  can't  afford  them.  If  it's  true  that 
the  Duchess  thinks  of  starting  a  milliner's  in 
South  Audley  Street,  you  may  be  sure  that  no- 
body but  the  Americans,  and  the  Cape  people, 
will  be  able  to  stand  the  prices.  Don't  forget, 
there's  a  good  girl — I  mean  about  Sir  Dolly." 

The  intelligence  startled  Helen  slightly.  Sir 
Adolphus  had  romped  with  her  when  she  was  a 
child,  and  she  appreciated  the  fact  that  since  she 
had  been  a  woman  he  had  always  taken  pains  to 
show  his  best  side  to  her.  To  hear  that  he  was  in 
danger  of  making  himself  ridiculous  was  distress- 
ing. She  felt  sorry  for  Agatha  as  well;  and  she 
wrote  the  desired  invitation  at  once.  If  she  had 
been  better  occupied,  she  would  probably  have 


THE  WORLDLINGS  229 

waited  until  the  morrow,  but  she  was  alone,  and 
her  book  was  dull. 

She  had  not  long  despatched  the  note  when 
the  footman  announced:   "Mrs.  Bligh." 

Agatha  was  evidently  ignorant  of  the  request 
that  had  emanated  from  Oakenhurst,  and  more 
than  ten  minutes  passed  before  she  approached 
the  matter  that  engrossed  her.  She  touchedupon 
everything  but  what  she  had  come  to  say,  envy- 
ing the  other's  position  meanwhile  more  bitterly 
than  she  had  envied  it  yet. 

At  last  she  said: 

"Oh,  we  are  so  concerned  about  poor  Sir  Dolly, 
dear!  His  mind  is  quite  giving  way — he  wants 
to  marry.  Isn't  it  sad?  Of  course,  outsiders 
would  only  laugh,  but  to  the  family  his  collapse 
is  pitiable.    Such  a  brilliant  man  he  used  to  be!" 

"I  heard  from  Whichcote  that  he  was  likely  to 
marry,"  said  Helen.  "I've  asked  him  to  come  to 
us  at  Pangbourne;  your  mother  hinted  that  it 
was  rather  desirable  to  persuade  him  to  leave 
town.    Do  you  think  he'll  accept?" 

"Oh,  have  you?  At  Pangbourne?  How  kind 
of  you,  dear !  But  you  don't  go  for  more  than  a 
month,  do  you?  Another  month  of  the  lady's 
society  might  be  quite  fatal — I  hope  we  shall  be 
able  to  stop  it  before  then.    You  know  Percy  has 


230  THE  WORLDLINGS 

always  been  like  a  son  to  the  old  man;  he  felt  it 
his  dutv  to — to  do  all  he  could." 

"Naturally,"  said  Helen.  She  looked  through 
the  window — at  the  trees  in  the  square,  and  at 
other  women's  children,  who  had  lived.  "Let  me 
give  you  some  more  tea."  The  transparent  dis- 
ingenuousness  of  the  pose  irritated  her,  and  for 
a  moment  she  repented  her  attempt  to  come  to 
the  rescue. 

"Xo  more,  thanks,  dearest.  I  wonder — be- 
tween ourselves  now — if  vou  know  her  name:  she 
calls  herself  'Mrs.  Fleming'?" 

"I  suppose  there  are  thousands  of  women  one 
doesn't  know  who  are  very  nice,"  said  Helen, 
coolly.  "Sir  Dolly  might  be  extremely  happy 
with  her." 

A  tinge  of  confusion  entered  into  Agatha's 
solicitude  for  him.  "Do  you  think  so?"  she  said. 
"Do  you? — you  don't?  Of  course  one  can't  ig- 
nore that  it  would  be  very  cruel  towards  Percy, 
too,  but  really  one  doesn't  think  so  much  of  that 
as  of  the  scandal.  It'd  be  too  shocking!  For- 
tunately we  made  inquiries — there  must  be  limits 
even  to  Sir  Dolly's  weakness.  She's  quite  impos- 
sible. I  know  I  may  talk  openly  to  you,  dear; 
she  wras  about  London  constantly  the  vear  before 
last,  with  your  husband,  and  people  say  that  he 
knew  her  very  well." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  231 

Helen  whitened  a  little — the  stab  had  been  un- 
foreseen— but  her  gaze  never  flinched.  The  other 
woman  was  leaning  forward,  wearing  a  confiden- 
tial smile ;  and  she  smiled  back  finely. 

"Really?"  she  said;  "but  then  there  are  always 
people  who're  glad  to  say  spiteful  things.  Are 
you  sure  you  won't  have  any  more  tea?" 

"I  daren't.  Sir  David  told  Percy  I  was  ruin- 
ing my  nerves  with  tea.  So  meddlesome  of  him! 
I  had  to  promise  to  give  it  up.  Percy  implored ; 
and  when  one  marries  for  love,  one  makes  these 
sacrifices — you  can't  imagine  how  absurd  one 
gets !  Oh,  my  dear  Helen,  there's  no  doubt  about 
the  intimacy!  Uncle  Fred  had  chambers  in  the 
same  house  as  Mr.  Jardine,  and  she  was  found  in 
your  husband's  rooms  once  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  I  don't  suppose  there's  anything  in  it  now 
— of  course  he  only  goes  to  see  her  for  auld  lang 
syne! — but  she's  quite  depraved." 

She  wondered  if  Agatha  had  heard  her  heart 
thud.  While  she  fought  for  composure,  the  weak- 
ness mounted  from  her  body  to  her  brain  and  she 
saw  through  a  mist.  She  was  torn  between  a 
passionate  eagerness  to  question  the  hateful  wom- 
an opposite,  and  a  horror  of  yielding  her  the  tri- 
umph.   Pride  conquered. 

"People  allow  themselves  many  liberties  on 
the  plea  of  auld  lang  syne,"  she  said  steadily. 


£S8  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"Where  do  you  go  yourselves  in  the  autumn — 
(  )akenhurst,  isn't  it  ?  Give  my  love  to  your  moth- 
er, if  I  don't  see  you  again." 

Agatha  rose,  the  smile  fastened  to  her  face  by 
a  painful  effort. 

"It  was  quite  too  sweet  of  you  to  ask  Sir  Dolly 
down,"  she  said;  "of  course  you  couldn't  know 
what  arguments  we  had  found."  They  always 
kissed,  and  to  omit  the  ceremony  would  be  to 
acknowledge  her  discomfiture;  her  eyes  betrayed 
her  fear  of  committing  herself  as  she  drew  near- 
er. "I  must  run  away;  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so 
late,  and  we're  dining  early  this  evening." 

Helen  put  forth  her  fingers,  and  she  was  furi- 
ous that  she  had  not  taken  the  initiative.  She 
squeezed  them  gently. 

"By,  by,  dear,"  she  said,  still  smiling  with  stiff 
lips. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

In  the  moment  that  the  door  closed  Helen's 
predominant  emotion  was  relief.  Humiliation 
rushed  in  upon  her  the  next  instant,  but  the  first 
quick  consciousness  was  of  thanksgiving  to  be  left 
alone.  She  dropped  back  into  the  chair  weakly, 
and,  with  her  gaze  fixed  upon  the  same  point  for 
minutes,  sat  seeing  nothing.  Was  it  true — not 
eighteen  months  married,  and  unfaithful  to  her? 
Her  reason  told  her  that  it  was  a  malignant  lie — 
a  person  who  was  base  enough  to  wound  her  with 
the  tale  so  gratuitously  was  base  enough  to  invent 
it — but  reason  could  not  quiet  the  wakened  doubt. 

How  could  Agatha  have  heard  ?  He  had  been 
seen!  By  whom — Agatha,  or  friends  of  hers? 
Was  it  already  food  for  gossip?  Where  was  she, 
this  Mrs.  Fleming?  Even  the  name  was  unfa- 
miliar. Her  mind  groped  in  the  dusk  of  igno- 
rance piteously,  and  the  vast  living  fact  of  the  un- 
known woman  overwhelmed  her. 

Should  she  ask  him  if  it  was  true?     Should 

she  sav  to  him ?     He  was  in  the  smoking- 

room;  she  might  go  to  him  and  tell  him  what 
had  been  said — now,  while  the  impulse  was  hot 

233 


234  THE  WORLDLINGS 

in  her!  She  half  raised  herself,  but  the  futility 
of  the  question  weighted  her  limbs.  What  an- 
swer but  one  was  possible?  Tie  would  declare 
that  the  woman  was  nothing  to  him — and  the 
doubt  would  remain. 

Then  it  was  never  to  be  ended?  The  suspicion 
was  to  haunt  her — she  was  to  wonder  when  he 
kissed  her,  and  imagine  whenever  he  was  out? 
Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  splashed  on  her 
locked  hands.  How  did  women  bear  these  things 
that  were  whispered  over  tea-tables  with  smiles; 
how  had  her  mother  borne  her  life?  Hadn't  she 
suffered? 

Oh,  it  was  horrible!  Her  father  and  her  hus- 
band! Were  all  men  alike?  And  onlookers  con- 
sidered it  amusing.  How  often  she  had  heard 
women  make  a  jest  of  another's  misery — as  they 
might  be  jesting  now  at  hers!  She  shivered. 
Weren't  they  afraid  to  laugh,  when  their  own 
turn  might  come  to-morrow  or  next  week? 

If  you  didn't  care  for  the  man,  of  course  the 
pain  was  less — the  abasement  was  easier  to  en- 
dure; and  there  might  be  some  who  asked  no 
more  than  the  position  for  which  they  yielded 
themselves.  Those  who  married  without  love 
must  be  least  wretched,  unless  tliev  loved  after- 
wards,  like  herself — like  a  fool — when  it  was  too 
late!    How  low  she  had  been — what  a  degrada- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  235 

tion,  stripping  the  cant  and  the  orange-blossoms 
from  the  sale !  Supposing  he  retorted  that  he  had 
the  right  to  hold  his  mistress  just  as  high?  "When 
one  marries  for  love — you  can't  imagine  it!" 
That  odious  woman!  She  had  wanted  Philip  her- 
self and  was  envious  still,  although  she  was  a  wife 
now — although  she  believed  him  incapable  of  fi- 
delity. What  a  world,  what  a  sordid,  hypocrit- 
ical, vile  world — the  women  were  as  vicious  as 
the  men!  Her  little  baby!  She  craved  to  clasp 
his  body  to  her  breast.  ...  At  least  he  had  died 
while  he  was  pure. 

Excepting  when  her  hand  rose  mechanically 
to  smear  away  the  tears,  she  sat  motionless  till 
the  gong  sounded.  Then  she  lingered  before  the 
glass,  and  went  slowly  to  her  maid.  She  might 
plead  a  headache  and  dine  in  her  room  this  even- 
ing, but  to-morrow  evening  she  would  again  have 
to  dine  downstairs.  What  was  an  evening  more 
or  less!  The  necessity  for  replying  to  Maurice 
at  the  table,  for  assuming  her  ordinary  demean- 
our in  the  drawing-room,  demanded  one  of  those 
efforts  that  are  called  superhuman.  It  was  a  rare 
occurrence  for  him  to  leave  the  house  after  din- 
ner now  that  she  preferred  to  remain  at  home ;  but 
sometimes  he  went  into  a  club  for  an  hour — and 
she  found  herself  waiting  to  hear  him  say  that 
he  was  going  out  to-night.     She  felt  vulgar  and 


23G  THE  WORLDLINGS 

contemptible;  she  hated  herself  for  it;  but  in 
every  silence  she  knew  that  she  was  waiting. 

Conversation  ceased.  She  found  her  book,  and 
he  picked  up  his  own.  In  the  long  lamplit  room 
the  soft  ticking  of  a  Louis  Quartorze  clock,  and 
the  occasional  flutter  of  a  bird's  wings  from  the 
fernery  were  the  only  sounds.  After  half  an  hour 
the  man's  book  drooped,  ftnd  he  sat  watching  her 
wistfully;  noting  at  what  lengthy  intervals  she 
turned  the  pages  and  wondering  what  had 
troubled  her.  Her  face  was  concealed,  but  his 
gaze  dwelt  upon  her  fingers  on  the  cover — upon 
the  fairness  of  her  brow,  upon  the  glimmer  of 
her  instep  through  the  black  lace  stocking.  She 
lifted  her  head,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"What's  wrong,  Helen?"  he  asked,  going  over 
to  her. 

The  impulse  to  tell  him  what  she  had  heard 
seized  her  again;  and  again  she  wavered,  in  the 
knowledge  that  he  must  deny. 

"Wrong?"  she  said.  "What  makes  you  think 
there's  anything  wrong?" 

'You  aren't  reading;  you  had  to  make  your- 
self talk;  you've  been  crying."  The  words  were 
a  lover's;  the  tone  was  the  tone  of  cheerful  non- 
chalance to  which  he  had  schooled  himself.  "I 
don't  want  to  be  inquisitive,  but  is  there  anything 
I  can  do?" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  237 

She  might  have  said  "Yes;  care  for  me  as  you 
cared  before  I  showed  that  it  bored  me!" — she 
might  have  said  it  earlier — but  she  wasn't  a  wom- 
an to  whom  a  gush  of  appeal  was  easy.  The 
novel  lay  open  on  her  lap,  and  her  forefinger 
travelled  slowly  up  the  edges  of  the  paper. 

"Agatha  called  to-day,"  she  murmured.  She 
was  going  to  test  the  story,  and  she  felt  more 
despicable  still. 

"Oh,"  said  Maurice,  "how  is  she?" 

"She's  worried.  They're  afraid  Sir  Dolly 
means  to  marry  a  Mrs.  Fleming.  Have  you 
heard  of  her,  Philip?" 

He  had  not  expected  her  to  mention  the  mat- 
ter till  the  engagement  was  announced.  The 
name  on  her  lips,  the  quick  inquiry  that  followed 
it,  took  him  aback.    He  looked  away. 

"Heard  of  her?"  he  repeated.    "Y-e-s," 

"Do  you  know  her?" 

He  was  already  collecting  his  wits. 

"I  used  to  know  her,"  he  said;  "I've  met  her. 
So  Sir  Dolly  is  going  to  marry  her,  is  he?  It's 
rather  rough  on  the  Blighs." 

He  had  known  her — Agatha  had  been  right  in 
that!  But  his  embarrassment  might  have  meant 
no  more.  She  trembled  an  instant  between  self- 
abhorrence  and  temptation.     Should  she  go  on? 


238  THE  WORLDLINGS 

Another  question,  and  the  uncertainty  might  be 
over. 

"Do  you  ever  meet  her  now?"  she  said. 

To  Maurice  his  pause  seemed  longer  than  it 
was.  Why  did  she  ask?  What  should  he  an- 
swer  ?  To  say  "No"  was  repugnant  to  him,  more- 
over it  might  be  unwise;  to  say  "Yes"  might  call 
for  explanations  that  he  was  unprepared  to  give. 
His  hesitancy  did  not  last  five  seconds;  but  it 
lasted  long  enough  to  swell  her  fear. 

"I  saw  her  a  few  weeks  ago  in  Pall  Mall,"  he 
said;  "I  stopped  and  spoke  to  her.    Why?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Helen;  "I— wondered." 

She  raised  the  novel.  And  the  tick  of  the 
clock,  and  the  restless  flutter  of  a  bird  were  the 
only  sounds  again. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

What  had  she  meant?  Why  had  she  looked 
at  him  like  that?  She  had  discovered  something! 
— he  felt  it  in  his  veins.  She  would  have  avoided 
his  kiss  when  she  said  good-night.  He  turned 
back  from  the  door,  quaking.  The  trend  of  her 
suspicion  did  not  occur  to  him — innocence  is  dull- 
brained.  His  mind  sprang  to  his  guilt,  and  a  cold 
sweat  broke  out  over  him  as  he  asked  himself  if 
anything  could  have  happened  that  menaced  ex- 
posure. 

What — what?  His  thoughts  scoured  the  field 
of  conjecture  vainly.  Could  he  be  mistaken — 
was  there  no  significance  in  her  queries  but  what 
his  alarm  attributed?  But,  then,  why  her  man- 
ner? 

Xot  for  an  hour  was  he  in  sight  of  the  truth ; 
and  he  dismissed  the  idea  as  puerile.  Even  if  he 
had  been  heard  to  inquire  for  Mrs.  Fleming  by 
someone  who  had  mentioned  the  visit,  there  was 
no  reason  why  Helen  should  hold  it  an  offence 
against  her.  Mrs.  Fleming  was  ostensibly  a  re- 
spectable acquaintance.  She  was  engaged,  or 
about  to  be  engaged,  to  Sir  Adolphus  Bligh. 

239 


240  THE  WORLDLINGS 

Helen  would  have  said  "I'm  told  you  know  this 
Mrs.  Fleming  that  Sir  Dolly  is  raving  about. 
How  is  it  I  haven't  met  her?  what's  she  like?" 
Some  surprise,  a  natural  curiosity,  but  no  more! 
No,  her  manner  wasn't  to  be  accounted  for  by 
jealousy — even  assuming  that  she  cared  for  him 
enough  to  be  troubled  were  there  cause.  He 
was  doubtful  if  she  did.  Complaisance  appeared 
to  be  a  feature  of  the  women's  education  in  the 
world  where  he  was  an  intruder — in  the  world 
where  marriage  was  a  display,  a  barter,  anything 
but  a  union ! 

A  new  element  had  entered  into  his  torture: 
he  was  harassed  by  misgiving.  He  felt  that  he 
himself  had  nothing  to  lose — felt  it  honestly — 
the  game  hadn't  been  worth  the  candle;  had  he 
stood  alone,  the  whisper — if  they  did  whisper — 
might  have  risen  to  a  roar  and  they  could  have 
done  what  they  liked  with  him.  But  he  would 
ruin  her  if  he  fell:  and  he  swore  he  wouldn't 
fall.  Before  disgrace  should  touch  his  wife  he 
was  ready  to  perjure  himself  with  a  face  of  brass 
and  to  break  every  law  made  by  God  or  man. 

And  Helen  meanwhile  continued  to  question 
in  every  hour  of  the  day  whether  he  had  dishon- 
oured  her.  Now  the  rare  thing  had  happened — 
her  soul  had  shed  its  veil  and  leapt  to  the  woman 
naked:  she  was  dizzy  in  the  light  of  self-revela- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  241 

tion.  In  the  doubt  that  tormented  her,  his  pres- 
ence was  an  ignominy,  and  his  voice  was  a  lash; 
but  she  loved  him.  How  deep  her  love  Had  grown 
hadn't  been  known  to  her  till  this  fear  that  she 
had  lost  him  entirely  tugged  at  its  roots.  It 
stabbed  her  to  reflect  that  the  stranger  had,  at 
least,  been  his  mistress  once,  and  she  hated 
Agatha  for  telling  her;  she  wished  to  blot  from 
her  mind  all  consciousness  that  other  women  had 
played  parts  in  his  life;  she  saw  that  her  own 
was  filled  by  him.  She  recalled  their  honeymoon ; 
she  looked  back  with  wet  eves  at  the  months  in 
which  she  knew  that  she  had  held  him — at  the 
time  when  he  kissed  the  slippers  that  she  wore. 
When  had  the  other  influence  been  recovered? 
O,  God!  How  he  had  insulted  her,  degraded 
her.     She  twisted  her  hands. 

But  was  it  true?  How  did  one  find  out  such 
things?  She  couldn't  live  like  this;  she  must  be 
sure !  She  wondered  if  the  story  had  reached  her 
mother's  ears,  if  her  mother  found  it  convincing; 
she  was  to  be  in  town  shortly — when  they  were 
together  it  might  be  possible  to  ascertain.  And 
Sir  Dolly,  what  of  him?  He  had  accepted  the 
invitation;  the  fact  had  been  somewhat  surpris- 
ing: had  his  intentions  changed,  or  would  he  snap 
his  fingers  at  the  Saviles'  interference  and  excuse 


242  THE  WORLDLINGS 

himself  later  from  coming,  on  the  grounds  of  his 
engagement? 

Lady  Wrensfordsley's  visit  to  town  was  for  the 
purpose  of  a  day's  shopping,  and  she  would,  of 
course,  spend  the  night  at  Prince's  Gardens. 

The  geniality  of  her  greeting  was  an  instant 
relief  to  Maurice,  for  he  had  dreaded  to  find  her 
air  as  constrained  as  Helen's.  Helen  herself  was 
more  than  once  persuaded  by  it,  while  they 
shopped  and  drove,  that  Lady  S  a  vile  had  re- 
frained from  repeating  the  tale  that  Agatha  had 
doubtless  communicated  post  haste,  and  she  was 
a  little  perplexed ;  she  was  eager  for  her  mother's 
judgment,  but  shrank  from  approaching  the  sub- 
ject. Only  at  dinner  the  visitor's  sunniness  was 
a  tinge  too  sunny,  her  satisfaction  with  every- 
body and  everything,  except  Lady  Pontefract's 
bill,  a  shade  too  complete  to  deceive  one  who  had 
been  familiar  with  her  voice  for  years;  and  now 
her  daughter  watched  her  hungrily,  striving  to 
arrive  at  her  opinion  before  she  uttered  it. 

The  hope  that  Helen  had  not  been  told  had 
died  in  Lady  Wrensfordsley  at  the  moment  when 
she  first  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  consider- 
able nervousness  underlav  the  serenitv  with  which 
she  at  last  declared  herself  tired.  She  foresaw 
a  bad  half-hour,  as  she  was  accompanied,  and 
memories  intensified  her  pity. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  243 

It  appeared  to  Helen  that  her  maid  was  very 
slow  in  attendance  on  another.  The  preparations 
threatened  to  be  interminable,  as,  waiting  for  the 
girl  to  finish,  she  sat  gazing  mutely  at  the  tea- 
things  that  were  to  minister  to  Lady  Wrensfords- 
ley's  unconquered  vice.  Yet  when  the  maid  had 
gone,  the  power  to  speak  seemed  to  have  gone 
as  well,  and  the  silence  continued. 

It  was  broken  by  the  elder  woman. 

"You're  going  to  have  some  with  me,  aren't 
you?"  she  inquired  cheerfully,  coming  to  the 
table.  "Really  not?  That's  a  very  good  girl 
of  yours,  dear;  you  were  very  fortunate  to  get 
her.  Other  people's  maids  are  so  clumsy  as  a 
rule — like  boots,  they're  no  use  to  anybody  but 
the  owner."  She  poured  out  her  tea,  and  sipped 
it  with  increasing  apprehension.  "I've  been 
thinking,"  she  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "that  the 
insertion  would  have  been  more  effective  than 
the  ruche,  do  you  know!  ...  I  wonder?  I've 
a  good  mind  to  send  a  wire  in  the  morning.  What 
do  you  think  yourself?" 

Helen  got  up,  and  stood  with  her  elbow  resting 
on  the  mantelshelf. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Lady  Wrensfords- 
ley.    "Aren't  you  well?" 

"Mother!    You  know!" 

"I  know?"  said  Lady  Wrensfordsley.  "I  know 


244  TIIK  WORLDLINGS 

what?     What  is  it — what  are  you  looking  like 
that  for?" 

'You  know  what's  said;  you  know  that  they 
say  this  woman  is — is  Philip's  mistress.  Agatha 
told  me — they've  told  you.  Don't  pretend  to  me 
— I  want  you  to  talk  to  me,  to  tell  me  what  to  do. 
Should  I  believe  it?  Do  you  believe  it?  Tell  me 
the  truth!" 

"Believe  it?  Why  should  I  believe  anything 
so  perfectly  ridiculous?  Agatha  told  you,  did 
she?  And  what  proof  did  the  cat  give  you?  My 
dear  Helen,  I  thought  you  had  more  sense!  Sir 
Dolly  wants  to  marry  the  woman,  and  it's  to 
their  interest  to  take  away  her  character.  Can't 
you  see  that?" 

'They're  not  compelled  to  take  away  Philip's; 
there  are  other  men  in  London.  .  .  .  Before  I 
married  him  everyone  knew  about  him  and — and 
Mrs.  Fleming.    Did  you  know?" 

"I  did  not,"  said  Lady  Wrensfordsley.  "And 
who  says  that  everyone  knew — Agatha?  If 
you're  going  to  be  happy,  my  dear,  the  first  thing 
you've  got  to  learn  is  to  believe  very  little  of 
what  'they  say.'  People  say  anything,  especially 
spiteful  women  who  are  envious  of  one  match, 
and  eager  to  break  off  another.  I  fervently  trust 
that  Sir  Dolly  will  marry  this  Mrs.  Fleming,  and 


THE  WORLDLINGS  245 

that  he'll  have  a  son  with  the  least  possible  de- 
lay!" 

"Why  does  he  go  to  see  her  now,  if  he's  true 
to  me?"  exclaimed  Helen  quickly.  "Is  it  natural 
for  a  man  to  visit  a  woman  he  used  to  know  like 
that,  if  he  cares  for  his  wife?  Why  does  he  go 
to  her  if  there's  no  wrong?" 

'Why'?  .  .  .  How  do  you  know  he  does  go? 
You  seem  to  be  wonderfully  credulous  all  of  a 
sudden." 

"I  asked  him.  He  hesitated ;  he  admitted  that 
he  had  'met'  her.  Oh,  my  eyes  are  clear  enough, 
I  could  see  I  had  startled  him." 

"I  daresay  you  did  if  you  looked  at  him  as  you 
look  now — you'd  startle  anybody.  I  keep  telling 
you  that  you've  no  reason  to  think  he  did  know 
her  like  that.  When  a  good-looking  woman's 
alone,  someone  is  always  ready  to  explain  her 
income  in  such  a  way." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Helen.  "Do  you 
mean  that  she  was  supposed  to  take — to  take 

money  from  him?    She's  a  woman  who Oh, 

my  God!  he  insults  me  for  her — the  love  that's 
sold — the  love  that's  sold!". 

She  began  to  sob,  catching  her  lip  between 
her  teeth  in  an  effort  to  steady  herself. 

"I  thought,"  said  her  mother,  feebly,  "you  told 
me  that  Agatha " 


246  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"You  thought  I  knew — yes.  Oh,  it  doesn't 
matter!  What  difference  does  it  make  who  she 
is  if  he  has  gone  back  to  her?  Why  should  I 
mind  ?  Has  he  ?  Tell  me !  You  treat  me  like  a 
child.  You  sit  there  trying  to  deceive  me.  I'm 
a  woman — I'm  his  wife — I've  a  right  to  know." 

"I've  told  you.  The  story's  nonsense.  Helen, 
don't !"  She  went  across  to  her  dismayed,  stretch- 
ing out  nervous  hands. 

"I  don't  believe  you — I  don't  believe  you  think 
so.  Of  course,  you  say  so — you  think  it  best  for 
me  to  say  so.  You  don't  think  what  it  is  to  me 
to  be  with  him,  if  it's  true :  the  horror  of  it — day 
after  day!  now!  You  mean  to  be  kind,  but  you 
don't  understand — you  don't  understand!" 

"Z  don't  'understand'?"  murmured  Lady 
Wrensfordslev,  with  a  lifetime  in  her  voice. 

Helen  raised  her  head,  and  for  a  moment  the 
eves  of  the  women  met. 

"Ah,  mother!  mother!" 

She  drooped  to  her  with  the  cry,  and  some  sec- 
onds passed  while  they  held  each  other  without 
speaking. 

"Listen,"  said  Lady  Wrensfordslev,  "I  under- 
stand— I  understand  much  better  than  vou  can 
realise.  One  is  never  young  to  one's  child,  but 
I  was  younger  than  you  when  I  married.  I've 
been  through  it  all,  just  as  you  are  going  through 


THE  WORLDLINGS  247 

it.  I  oughtn't  to  say  that  to  you ;  but  you  know. 
At  the  beginning  I  tried  to  find  out,  just  as  you 
are  trying  to  find  out.  And  when  I  succeeded  I 
broke  my  heart.  Helen,  don't  ask!  You  might 
prove  him  true  now — and  again,  and  perhaps 
again;  but  the  day'd  come  when  you'd  ask  once 
too  often.  And  nothing  pays  for  that.  Close 
your  eyes;  the  contented  woman  is  the  woman 
who  doesn't  see  too  much.  Love  isn't  blind,  be- 
cause there's  no  love  without  jealousy,  and  jeal- 
ousy's an  Argus ;  but  contentment's  as  blind  as  a 
bat." 

"'Contentment'?  To  suffer — to  question! 
You  say  that  I'm  mistaken — tell  me  how  to  be 
sure  of  it.  Never  mind  the  future — I'd  never 
suspect  him  any  more.  I'd  go  on  my  knees  to 
him  and  ask  his  pardon.  The  doubt's  killing  me 
— tell  me  how  to  be  sure  to-day!" 

"And  supposing  you  found  you  were  right? 
I  don't  say  you  would — I  don't  think  you  would ; 
but  if  you  did?  What  do  you  imagine  that  cer- 
tainty'd  do  for  you?  Your  doubt'll  die.  You 
can't  believe  that,  but  some  time — in  a  few  months 
perhaps — you'll  look  back  and  wonder  at  it.  Per- 
haps you'll  be  wrong  to  wonder — perhaps  you'll 
be  right ;  but  right,  or  wrong,  the  revulsion  comes 
to  every  woman  who's  as  fond  of  a  man  as  you 
are.    I  didn't  dream  how  fond  you  were.    Knowl- 


? 


248  THE  WORLDLINGS 

edge  never  dies;  I  heave  known  it  poison  every 
hour  of  fifteen  years." 

"If  I  found  I  was  right,  certainty  would — 
would  save  me  from  shuddering  at  myself," 
stammered  Helen;  "that's  what  it  would  do!  I 
should  wish  I  were  dead,  but  the  worst  humilia- 
tion would  be  over." 

'You  wouldn't  make  a  scandal?"  gasped  Lady 
Wrensfordsley.     "You  wouldn't  do  that?" 

"Make  a  scandal — I?  Isn't  it  the  scandal  that 
he  should  come  to  me  from — from  that  woman's 
arms  and  that  I  should  have  to  tolerate  his  touch, 
and — and  give  him  my  lips?  I  tell  you  that  it's 
driving  me  mad,  the  shame  of  it!  Make  a  scan- 
dal— ir 

"If  you  knew  you  were  right,  it  would  be  very 
awful.     At  the  same  time " 

'You  feel  that  I'm  right,  or  you  wouldn't  ad- 
vise me  to  bear  the  doubt." 

'Your  position  gone!  'Poor  Lady  Helen!' — ■ 
everybody  talking.    How  would  you  bear  that?" 

"Some  people  talk  already." 

"But  you  don't  suffer  socially  while  you  re- 
main with  him.  Think  what  you'd  lose!  You 
don't  mean  it?" 

"Socially?  Oh  no,  I  don't  'suffer  socially' 
while  I  remain  with  him — I  forgot.  I  suffer  just 
a  little  in  my  heart — I  feel  just  a  little  lowered, 


THE  WORLDLINGS  249 

and  unclean.  But  I  havn't  reached  the  martyr- 
dom of  suffering  socially!"  She  lifted  steadfast 
eyes,  and  to  both  the  women  who  had  loved  with- 
out comprehending  each  other,  the  great  gulf 
that  separated  them  was  clear.  "I  wouldn't  sub- 
mit to  the  dishonour  to  keep  a  coronet,"  she  said. 

Lady  Wrensfordsley  moved  about  the  room  in 
purposeless  inquietude.  Her  transformation, 
which  she  had  retained  in  prospect  of  the  inter- 
view, had  been  displaced,  and  the  sign  of  trouble 
on  her  forehead  was  deepened  by  the  unfamiliar 
glimpse  of  grey  hair. 

Helen  kissed  her,  and  drew  her  back  to  her  seat, 

"I'll  leave  you  now,  mother.  You've  had 
enough." 

"Are  you  tired,  dear?  Good-night.  I  shan't 
go  to  bed  yet."  Her  hand  lingered.  "I'm  posi- 
tive of  one  thing — he's  very  fond  of  you.  I've 
no  doubt  about  that  at  all.  If  he  lost  you  he'd 
be  dreadfully  cut  up." 

"We  won't  talk  about  it  any  more,  dearest. 
I'm  so  sorry." 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  mean  it.  Whatever  he 
may,  or  mayn't  have  done,  he's  very  fond  of  you. 
Don't  overlook  it." 

"If  he  were  fond  of  me  still,  I  shouldn't  be 
wondering.  He  used  to  be ;  it  was  my  fault  that 
he  changed,  I  know." 


250  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"And  yet  you'd  divorce  him  for — for  a  mad- 
ness? When  all  is  said,  wouldn't  it  be  rather  hard 
for  you?  .  .  .  Sit  down — you  wouldn't  sleep.  I 
want  to  tell  you  something  that  we  take  a  long 
time  to  learn.  We  never  do  learn  it,  really,  or 
we  mightn't  be  so  wretched,  but  after  a  great 
many  years  we  begin  to  get  an  inkling  of  it.  We 
oughtn't  to  judge  our  husbands  from  our  own 
standpoint.  You  said  just  now  that  if  Philip 
cared  for  you,  he  couldn't  be  unfaithful ;  I  assure 
you  that  you're  wrong.  We're  better  than  men 
are,  in  some  things — we're  less  unselfish,  and  less 
grateful,  but  we  sin  with  more  refinement.  A 
woman  has  to  fancy  herself  in  love  with  another 
man  before  she  deceives  her  husband ;  but  a  man 
can  run  after  other  women  while  he  knows  he 
loves  his  wife.  I'm  not  saying  that  all  men  do 
— Philip  mayn't  for  one — but  there  are  hundreds 
and  thousands  who  can.  The  woman  who  refuses 
to  believe  that  her  husband  loves  her  simply  be- 
cause she  discovers  him  to  be  inconstant,  only  un- 
derstands her  own  nature." 

"'Simply'?"  said  Helen.  "The  woman  who 
'simply'  discovers  it?" 

"Yes ;  if  the  bare  fact  is  all  she  has  to  go  upon, 
she  only  understands  her  own  nature — she  doesn't 
understand  men's.  And  such  as  it  is,  it's  what 
We  ought  to  judge  them  by.    They're  the  slaves 


THE  WORLDLINGS  251 

of  their  impulses,  to  use  a  pretty  word;  their 
point  of  view  is  totally  different  from  ours — they 
can't  see  what  we  have  to  make  such  a  fuss  about. 
Many  a  man  who  deceives  his  wife  without  the 
slightest  compunction  would  go  through  fire  and 
water  to  save  her  from  a  grief  he  understood. 
My  dear  child,  don't  let's  forget  that  if  men  had 
self-control,  most  women  would  die  old  maids! 
Nobody  can  imagine  that  men  marry  because 
they  find  their  most  suitable  companions;  the 
number  of  'kindred  souls'  that  happened  to  drift 
together  every  year,  in  St.  James's  alone,  would 
be  quite  miraculous!  They  marry  because  they 
can't  resist  temptation.  While  we  are  the  temp- 
tation we  aren't  surprised — and  why  expect  a 
man's  nature  to  be  altered  by  a  wedding  cere- 
monyf 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  me  that  while  I  was  en- 
gaged?" returned  Helen  drearily. 

"My  dear!"  exclaimed  her  mother,  looking  a 
little  shocked.  .  .  .  "What  I  am  telling  you  is 
quite  right,"  she  went  on;  "men  are  ruled  by  their 
passions;  but  after  marriage  there  may  be  affec- 
tion and  esteem — after  marriage  they  may  have 
quite  a  different  feeling  for  their  wives  than  for 
anybody  else.  I  think  in  most  cases  they  have. 
That's  what  I  mean  by  saying  that  they  can't 
see  what  we  have  to  make  such  a  fuss  about  when 


252  THE  WORLDLINGS 

they're  horrible.  The  feeling  they  give  way  to  is 
often  so  much  lower  than  their  feeling  for  our- 
selves— so  separate  from  their  affection — that 
they  don't  understand  our  being  jealous  of  it." 

"I  am  not  'jealous,'  '  said  Helen,  rising;  "I 
am  revolted." 

"Yes,"  sighed  Lady  Wrensfordsley,  "I  know; 
we  never  say  we  are  jealous  till  it  has  ceased  to 
be  true." 

"Good-night,  mother." 

"Good-night.  .  .  .  Your  eyes  are  red;  he'll 
wonder — you'd  better  use  my  puff  before  you 

go." 

"Have  you  everything  you  want?    A  book?" 

"No.  I  shan't  read.  .  .  .  Take  my  advice  now 
and  don't  meet  trouble  half-way." 

"They  shall  bring  breakfast  in  to  you  in  the 
morning;  don't  get  up!" 

"Oh,  I'll  get  up;  I  may  as  well.  Half-past 
nine,  isn  t  it  f 

"You  had  better  not — you  are  sure  to  be  tired. 
I  shall  say  you  aren't  to  be  called." 

"Well,  if  you  think  so,  dear! — perhaps  it  would 
be  best.   .    .    .  Good-night." 

"Good-night." 


CHAPTER  XX 

Maurice  had  not  been  to  see  Rosa  since  Helen 
referred  to  her.  His  fear  had  faded ;  but  to  call 
upon  her  was  neither  pleasant  nor  necessary.  It 
was  impossible  for  him  to  feel  at  ease  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  woman  Mho  had  told  him  that  he  was  a 
liar  and  a  blackguard,  and  he  considered  that  the 
few  visits  he  had  already  made  were  sufficient 
to  show  that  he  appreciated  her  forgiveness.  A 
few  days  after  Lady  Wrensfordsley's  departure 
he  received  another  note,  reproaching  him  for  his 
absentment;  and  he  replied  that  he  was  at  the 
point  of  leaving  for  the  Court.  The  statement 
was  quite  true,  but  he  omitted  to  add  that  he  was 
going  that  evening,  and  returning  on  the  morrow. 
Such  flying  trips,  either  in  Helen's  company,  or 
alone,  were  frequently  made  to  the  old  man,  and 
eagerly  anticipated  by  him. 

Rosa  was  perturbed.  That  she  would  have  to 
seek  assistance  from  Maurice  had  latterly  looked 
to  her  inevitable;  Sir  Adolphus  was  also  absent- 
ing himself,  and  on  the  last  occasion  that  he  came 
had  said  nothing  more  definite  than  that  he  was 
going  to  Pangbourne  on  the  first  of  next  month 

253 


254  THE  WORLDLINGS 

to  stay  at  Lady  Helen  Jardine's.  Pangbourne 
was  far  enough  from  the  Langham;  but,  com- 
pared with  other  places  that  he  had  lightly  men- 
tioned, it  was  round  the  corner.  A  cacocthes  for 
travel  seemed  suddenly  to  have  possessed  the  old 
gentleman,  and  an  airy  allusion  to  Damascus  had 
struck  her  dumb. 

If  she  had  failed  to  realise,  during  their  con- 
versation, that  her  prospect  had  suffered  an  un- 
expected blow,  the  ensuing  week  would  have 
made  it  clear  to  her ;  and  now  that  the  waiter  no 
longer  announced  him  at  the  hour  of  tea-gowns, 
she  saw  it  was  more  luck  than  judgment  that  per- 
mitted her  to  remain  confident  of  victory.  He 
was  to  be  Maurice's  guest  and  admired  her  much 
too  ardently  to  be  able  to  stay  in  the  same  house 
with  her  without  proposing ;  her  desire  to  conquer 
single-handed  hadn't  been  fatal,  near  as  it  had 
come  to  being  so!  But  that  she  should  be  invited 
to  Pangbourne  was  imperative;  and  now  Maurice 
was  leaving  town — had  probably  left  it!  She 
threw  his  answer  on  the  floor  in  disgust. 

In  point  of  fact,  he  had  just  started  for  Wa- 
terloo as  she  tore  open  his  envelope.  Helen  was 
not  accompanying  him  this  time ;  she  was  still  at 
the  dinner-table,  from  which  he  had  risen  on  the 
removal  of  the  sweets.  She  had  not  petitioned 
her  mother  again  to  help  her  to  set  her  mind  at 


THE  WORLDLINGS  255 

rest — she  knew  that  it  would  be  useless — nor  had 
she  responded  in  her  letters  to  the  guarded  hope 
that  she  was  "feeling  better."  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  would  never  feel  better  in  her  life,  and 
there  was  no  need  to  cause  further  distress  by 
saying  so.  They  regarded  the  matter  from  dif- 
ferent standpoints:  to  her  mother's  view  it  was 
folly  to  be  wise — to  herself  such  ignorance  was 
continuous  torment.  They  were  rooted  to  their 
positions,  with  the  shield  between  them,  and  not 
all  the  talking  in  the  world  would  ever  turn  it. 

Her  dessert  plate  was  before  her,  and  she  was 
alone,  but  the  fruit  was  untasted.  While  she  sat 
thinking,  a  hansom  rattled  to  the  house,  and  the 
next  moment  the  click  of  a  latchkey  told  her  that 
her  husband  had  driven  back.  She  wondered 
what  he  had  forgotten,  for  it  was  only  a  minute 
or  two  since  he  had  said  good-bye. 

She  heard  him  stride  along  the  hall  and  stop  at 
the  hat-stand.  A  clatter  of  sticks  and  umbrellas 
reached  her,  as  an  overcoat  was  swept  against 
the  handles.  Whatever  he  had  sought,  it  was 
found  almost  at  once,  for  the  impetuous  search 
was  brief.  Then  the  scratch  of  a  vesta  suggested 
that  it  was  his  cigar-case  that  had  been  left  be- 
hind. He  hurried  out;  the  door  was  slammed 
again,  and  she  heard  him  run  down  the  four  steps. 

The  sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs  grew  fainter; 


256  THE  WORLDLINGS 

the  clip-clop  died  away.  In  the  street  there  was 
momentary  silence.  She  traced  lines  on  the  cloth 
with  the  fork  and  wished  that  it  were  time  to  go 
to  bed.  She  was,  anomalously,  relieved  to  be 
free  of  his  presence  and  lonely  without  him;  she 
began  to  regret  that  she  had  not  gone  to  Oaken- 
hurst  herself.  .   .   . 

Presently  the  postman  went  to  the  next  house 
but  one;  she  always  knew  when  he  had  reached 
that — it  was  the  only  house  on  this  side  with  a 
knocker.  She  paused,  with  a  strawberry  between 
her  fingers,  and  listened.  Even  letters  would 
make  an  incident.  He  was  going  to  the  next 
house,  too.  .  .  .  Now  he  had  come  down.  Was 
he  passing?  No,  he  stopped — he  was  coming 
here.  There  was  the  slow,  heavy  ascent,  the  pull 
at  the  bell;  and  then  a  second  ring,  which  meant 
that  he  was  waiting.  Something  unstamped,  or 
too  big  for  the  box ! 

She  heard  the  servant's  lighter  footfall  on  the 
stairs — his  leisurely  approach.  It  was  interesting 
to  note  the  time  that  he  found  it  possible  to  take 
between  the  two  doors.  .    .   . 

"For  Mr.  Jardine,  or  me?" 

"For  you,  my  lady." 

She  turned  her  head,  and  saw  Maurice's  keys 
lying  beside  the  letters. 

"Where  do  these  come  from?" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  257 

"They  were  left  in  the  door,  my  lady.  The 
postman  just  saw  them." 

"Oh,"  she  said;  "it's  lucky  he  did.  Very  well, 
put  them  down.  .   .   .  And,  Plummer!" 

"Yes,  my  lady?" 

"Give  the  man  something  the  next  time  he 


comes." 


"Yes,  my  lady.     Half-a-crown,  my  lady?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "No!  give  him  more  than 
that.  They  might  have  been  stolen,  and  it  would 
have  been  a  great  inconvenience.  Give  him — 
give  him  half-a-sovereign.  Don't  forget;  I  wish 
him  to  have  it  to-morrow  night.  You  had  better 
go  to  the  door  when  you  hear  him  in  the  street." 

"Very  good,  my  lady." 

A  bill,  and  a  begging  letter.  Some  furniture 
that  had  displeased  her  when  they  took  possession 
was  being  warehoused,  and  at  least  one  applica- 
tion for  ten-and-sixpence  in  advance  irritated  her 
every  month.  The  ninth  woman  who  had  written 
to  say  that  she,  too,  had  lost  her  baby  in  the 
spring,  quoted  the  Scriptures  and  asked  for 
twenty  pounds. 

Her  mind  reverted  to  the  keys.  Yes,  it  was 
lucky  that  the  postman  had  come — if  they  had 
been  lost  it  would  have  been  a  dreadful  nuisance ; 
there  must  be  the  keys  of  the  safe  here,  there 
must  be  the  key  of  Philip's  cash-box,  there  must 


258  THE  WORLDLINGS 

be  the  key  of  his  desk.  .  .  .  There  must  be  the 
key  of  his  desk! 

She  sat  quite  still.  The  room  was  very  warm, 
but  she  felt  suddenly  cold  in  it.  It  shocked  her 
that  she  could  have  thought  of  such  a  thing.  What 
an  idea;  how  had  it  entered  her  head?  She  was 
mortified  that  she  had  entertained  it,  even  for  a 
second.  To  open  his  desk — to  spy?  How  im- 
possible! Extraordinary  that  such  baseness 
should  have  occurred  to  her.  .  .  .  She  didn't  want 
any  strawberries  after  all.  She  would  go  to  the 
drawing-room. 

She  found  her  pocket  and  put  the  keys  in  it; 
and  went  upstairs.  She  had  left  the  piano  open, 
and  she  wandered  over  to  the  music-stool ;  but  her 
touch  was  weak,  and  before  she  had  played  a  bar, 
her  eyes  grew  wide  again,  and  her  hands  drooped. 
He  kept  his  bank-book  in  the  desk — she  might 
have  ended  her  doubt  in  five  minutes !  She  sighed 
impatiently,  and  struck  another  chord  .  .  .  and 
got  up. 

A  volume  of  verse  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  and 
she  settled  herself  to  read.  When  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  had  gone  by  she  awoke  to  the  fact  that 
she  had  not  understood  any  line,  and  she  put  the 
book  down.  She  drew  the  kevs  out,  and  sat 
looking  at  them.  If  she  proved  him  innocent,  she 
would  owrn  to  him  what  sho  had  done;  she  would 


THE  WORLDLINGS  259 

6ay:  "Forgive  me!  I  was  mad  to  see  if  you  were 
keeping  the  woman  or  not,  and  I  went  to  the 
smoking-room  and  opened  your  desk."  "Opened 
your  desk"?  It  sounded  horrible!  No,  she 
couldn't  do  it! 

But  hadn't  she  the  right  to  do  it — hadn't  she 
the  right  to  learn  the  truth?  The  action  was  re- 
pugnant to  her,  but  she  was  entitled  to  know. 
She  could  not  live  like  this;  better  the  one  swift 
shame  than  the  humiliation  that  she  was  suffer- 
ing— better  a  thousand  times!  When  all  was 
said,  there  was  nothing  unjustifiable  in  a  woman 
looking  at  her  husband's  pass-book ;  nothing  hein- 
ous in  her  unlocking  a  desk  that  she  had  never 
been  asked  to  consider  sacred.  .  .  .  If  it  held  no 
secret,  why  should  he  object?  If  it  didn't  hold 
the  secret,  she  would  apologise — she  would  tell 
him  how  much  she  had  borne  first.  If  it  did,  she 
would  re j  oice  that  she  had  overcome  her  scruples ; 
she  would  be  intensely  and  for  ever  glad  of  what 
she  had  done! 

Perhaps  the  book  was  at  the  bank?  She  took 
her  own  sometimes,  and  for  weeks  forgot  to  call 
for  it.  She  hadn't  thought  of  that  till  now.  But 
his  cheque-book,  at  least,  might  be  seen.  Those 
little  slips  at  the  side — what  was  the  word? 
Counterfoils.  Mrs.  Fleming's  name  would  ap- 
pear in  those.    Would  he  imagine  that  it  was  the 


260  THE  WORLDLINGS 

money  that  she  grudged?  Heaven  knew  that  he 
might  have  given  away  their  money  with  both 
hands  and  she  would  have  made  no  protest.  He 
could  not,  he  dare  not,  suggest  it  was  the  money  1 

The  keys  burnt  her  palm,  and  she  moved  rest- 
lessly to  and  fro.  Somewhere  within  hearing, 
one  of  the  untrained  bands  which  are  forbidden 
in  their  own  country  and  to  which  England  opens 
her  arms,  began  to  bray  a  German  valse.  The 
discords  maddened  her,  as  they  were  maddening 
manv  others. 

The  Louis  Quatorze  clock  struck  nine.  After 
a  while,  the  brazen  torture  ceased.  She  put  the 
keys  on  the  table,  and  returned  to  the  poetry  and 
forced  herself  to  follow  it — re-reading  the  lines 
until  her  brain  grasped  their  sense.  .  .  .  The 
clock  struck  again,  once.  Her  cushion  slipped 
to  the  ground,  and  she  rose  feverishly.  She 
couldn't  bear  it  any  longer — she  must  know ! 

She  went  down  to  the  hall  without  further  hes- 
itation. The  smoking-room  was  at  the  foot  of  the 
back  staircase,  and  for  once  she  dreaded  to  meet 
a  servant's  eyes.  As  she  turnd  the  handle  she 
glanced  over  her  shoulder  apprehensively,  and 
caught  a  breath  of  relief.  In  private  houses 
electric  light  was  not  yet  general,  and  a  minute 
passed  while  she  felt  about  the  room  for  matches. 
She  brushed  the  box  off  the  mantelpiece,  and  it 


THE  WORLDLINGS  261 

fell  with  a  rattle  in  the  fender.  By  the  time  she 
had  lit  the  gas  she  was  breathing  fast. 

The  desk  stood  opposite  the  door;  it  had  been 
here  when  they  came — a  walnut  desk  and  book- 
case combined,  with  drawers  down  the  sides,  and 
clear  amber  knobs.  She  dropped  into  the  chair 
that  faced  it,  and  wondered  which  was  the  right 
key. 

Now  when  she  had  got  so  far,  indecision  seized 
her  again,  and  while  she  yearned  for  certitude* 
she  quailed  in  self-contempt.  The  sight  of  the 
desk  magnetised  her;  but  for  some  seconds  her 
hands  shook  in  her  lap  and  she  could  not  put 
them  out. 

If  he  had  dishonoured  her,  a  moment's  strength 
would  bring  the  knowledge;  one  effort,  and  the 
ignominy  of  her  position  with  him  would  be  over. 
Had  he  dishonoured  her? — the  answer  lay  inside. 
She  lifted  her  hands,  and  bent  forward.  There 
were  six  keys  on  the  ring,  and  any  one  of  them 
might  fit — she  would  have  to  try  them  all. 

She  was  trembling  violently,  and  still  she  could 
not  force  herself  to  touch  the  lock.  For  an  in- 
stant she  wavered  so — a  reed  between  enticement 
and  repulsion.  Then  she  flung  the  keys  from  her, 
and  sprang  upright : 

"I  won't,  I  won't!"  she  said:  "I  swear  itl" 


262  THE  WORLDLINGS 

And  when  she  had  found  them — far  across  the 
room — she  went  upstairs  again  and  put  them  in 
her  dressing-table,  where  they  lay  unseen  till 
Maurice's  return. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  few  days  after  he  came  back  he  received  a 
letter  from  Rosa,  that  had  been  re-addressed  at 
the  Court.  Evidently  it  had  not  been  forwarded 
without  delay;  by  its  date  he  saw  that  it  must 
have  been  delivered  there  on  the  day  he  left. 

She  had  written  at  length;  and  his  heart  sank 
as  he  read  the  first  page : 

"Sir  Adolphus  is  backing  out,  and  if  I  am  not 
helped,  it  will  be  all  up  with  me.  I  know  all 
about  your  objection  to  seeing  me  in  your  house, 
and  very  foolish  of  you  it  is! — but  this  once  I 
want  you  to  invite  me  to  stay  at  Pangbourne 
while  he  is  there.  You  need  never  ask  me  any 
more,  but  this  one  visit  means  everything  to  me. 
I  suppose  you  won't  spoil  my  chance  rather  than 
put  up  with  a  little  unpleasantness  ?  For  Heav- 
en's sake  manage  it  at  once.  I've  the  right  to 
turn  to  you — and  I  am." 

After  the  "am"  the  letter  was  repetitious,  and 
in  parts  more  urgent  than  lucid. 

He  destroyed  it  in  dismay.  So  his  apprehen- 
sions hadn't  misled  him;  the  difficulty  was  re- 
vived !    He  had  to  maintain  that  what  she  asked 

263 


264-  THE  WORLDLINGS 

was  impossible,  and  this  time  his  refusal  would 
madden  her.  Although  she  would  probably  have 
swallowed  her  pride  at  such  a  crisis  even  if  their 
reconciliation  had  not  occurred,  he  recalled  their 
meeting  in  Pall  Mall  with  the  bitterest  regret; 
there  was  just  a  doubt  whether  she  would  have 
renewed  her  request  if  they  had  been  still  es- 
tranged; and  certainly  denial  would  have  been 
easier. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her.  He  was 
as  averse  as  ever  from  wounding  her  with  the 
truth,  and  in  the  circumstances  he  could  not  avoid 
it  by  the  plea  that  he  had  advanced  before.  To 
tell  her  that  she  must  sacrifice  a  definite  matri- 
monial prospect  because  her  presence  in  his  home 
would  remind  him  of  what  he  wished  to  forget, 
would  be  the  answer  of  a  ruffian.  He  began  to 
compose  a  reply  in  his  head,  with  the  instinctive 
hope  that  prelusory  phrases  would  suggest  an 
idea;  but  none  came  to  him.  All  that  came  was 
a  second  letter,  which  she  had  directed  to  Prince's 
Gardens  and  which  reached  him  within  a  few 
hours  of  the  first.  In  desperation  at  last,  he  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  hurried  note,  in  which  he  said 
nothing  but  that  he  would  write  fully  on  the  mor- 
row. It  arrived  at  the  same  moment  as  some 
boxes  from  Bond  Street  containing  frocks  for 
the  river. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  265 

She  read  it  almost  at  a  glance,  before  she 
looked  at  them.  It  alarmed  her  slightly.  Still 
"fully"  might  mean  with  the  invitation.  He 
couldn't  be  capable  of  ruining  her  in  sheer  dog- 
gedness — no  man's  audacity  could  rise  to  such  a 
pitch?  She  was  glad  that  her  second  letter  had 
been  sent,  for  her  references  to  his  responsibility 
had  been  less  veiled  in  that;  one  sentence  she  re- 
membered with  especial  satisfaction:  "I  have  got 
nearly  as  far,  myself,  as  I  helped  you  to  get ;  and 
now  I  ask  you  to  give  me  a  hand  over  the  last 
half -yard."  That  had  said  everything  in  a  nut- 
shell, there  was  no  shirking  that !  Canting  hum- 
bug as  he  was,  he  could  not  have  the  shameless- 
ness  to  answer  that  she  must  forego  six  thousand 
a  year  and  a  title,  in  order  to  spare  him  a  month's 
discomfort.  He  might  squirm,  but  he  would  have 
to  give  in ! 

She  spread  the  frocks  on  the  sofa  and  the  arm- 
chairs ;  and  fingered  them,  and  moved  about  them 
backwards,  with  her  head  to  one  side;  and  rang 
for  Emilie.  And  on  the  morrow  her  impatience 
was  forgotten  while  she  went  to  say  that  all  the 
thing's  must  be  sent  for  and  altered.  But  in  the 
evening,  when  the  nine-o'clock  post  brought  her 
nothing,  she  was  very  angry. 

What  occasion  was  there  for  delay?  It  need 
not  take  him  long  to  mention  the  matter  to  his 


266  THE  WORLDLINGS 

wife,  and  to  scribble  a  line  to  say  that  he  had 
managed  it.  Perhaps  his  wife  had  demurred? 
That  might  be  the  explanation — that  wife  of  his! 
Very  likely  she  did  not  want  anybody  else  to  join 
her  party;  in  a  languid,  superior  way  she  was 
making  difficulties?  Well,  he  would  have  to  in- 
sist, that  was  all!  And  "Lady  Bligh"  would  be 
just  as  good  as  she,  and  wouldn't  fail  to  eye  her 
with  open  disparagement  whenever  they  met ;  she 
wasn't  so  startling,  to  judge  by  her  portrait  in 
the  Illustrated  London  News — there  had  been 
nothing  for  a  man  to  go  crazy  over.  A  man? 
Two  statues  staring  at  each  other ! 

The  following  morning  she  woke  so  early  that 
she  had  an  hour  to  wait  before  the  post  was  de- 
livered ;  and  when  at  last  she  saw  Emilie  empty- 
handed,  disappointment  tightened  her  throat. 
She  returned  from  a  milliner's  with  the  thought 
that  a  telegram  might  be  awaiting  her;  and  in 
the  afternoon  her  chagrin  found  vent  in  the  com- 
position of  a  furious  remonstrance,  which  she 
sealed,  and  then  tore  up.  It  was  not  till  she  was 
going  down  to  dinner  that  the  letter  appeared. 
She  seized  it  with  a  sudden  premonition  of  disas- 
ter— she  knew  that  a  blow  was  falling  before  she 
succeeded  in  ripping  open  the  envelope. 

Maurice  stated  that  unfortunately  he  was  not 
able  to  come  to  her  assistance.     The  idea  of  Si* 


THE  WORLDLINGS  267 

Adolphus's  re-marrying  was  not  approved  by 
his  intimate  friends,  of  whom  Helen  was  one.  In 
view  of  the  opinions  that  she  held,  it  was  abso- 
lutely impossible  to  ask  her  to  do  anything  that 
was  likely  to  further  the  match.  He  added  friend- 
ly futilities. 

An  access  of  rage  rose  out  of  her  mental  sick- 
ness. He  could  have  hit  on  no  excuse  that  would 
have  exasperated  her  more.  His  wife  disap- 
proved !  The  woman  who  had  ruined  one  of  her 
chances  already,  "disapproved"  of  the  other.  She 
paced  the  room  with  exclamations,  cudgelling  her 
brains  for  argument.  She  wouldn't,  she  couldn't, 
resign  herself  to  failure.  Any  humiliation  was 
preferable;  she  would  go  on  her  knees  rather 
than  accept  defeat! 

After  a  few  minutes  she  began  to  question  the 
truth  of  the  message.  Perhaps  it  was  merely  a 
cloak  to  his  cowardice  and  he  had  never  spoken 
about  her  to  his  wife  at  all?  It  might  be  a  down- 
right lie,  to  conceal  the  infamy  of  his  refusal.  She 
snatched  at  the  letter  again:  if  the  suggestion 
couldn't  be  made,  why  hadn't  he  said  so  at  the 
beginning — what  had  he  waited  two  days  for?  It 
was  a  lie !  and,  fiercely  as  she  hated  him  for  it,  her 
load  lightened  a  little.  The  obstacle  of  his  wife's 
objection  had  been  crushing,  but  this  permitted 
her  a  breath  of  hope. 


268  THE  WORLDLINGS 

Dinner  was  forgotten.  She  ran  to  the  writing- 
table  and  caught  up  a  pen. 

'You  will  do  what  I  want,"  she  scrawled,  "or 
I  will  make  you  pay  for  it  with  every  shilling  you 
have."  She  continued  in  the  same  strain  for  half 
a  dozen  lines;  and  then  paused  uncertainly.  No! 
She  could  not  frighten  him — he  wouldn't  believe 
that  she  would  beggar  herself.  Oh,  what  a  scoun- 
drel he  was ;  she  would  like  to  see  him  in  the  gut- 
ter, wiping  a  crust!  But  since  it  was  no  use  to 
threaten,  what  could  she  do?  She  was  too  much 
excited  as  yet  to  think  of  any  course  less  obvious. 
Not  much  more  than  a  week  now  was  left  of  Au- 
gust, and  unless  she  drove  him  into  a  corner,  she 
would  not  hear  from  hjm  again  until  he  made  the 
September  payment.  She  burst  into  tears  and 
threw  down  the  pen  despairingly ;  and  it  was  late 
before  she  picked  up  another. 

"If  your  wife  disapproves,"  she  wrote,  "give 
me  a  chance  to  get  into  her  good  books;  if  she 
sees  me,  she  may  change  her  mind.  I  see  by 
your  kind  letter  that  you  are  anxious  to  do  all 
you  can;  so  let  me  call  at  Prince's  Gardens  to- 
morrow afternoon.  If  she  doesn't  take  to  me 
when  we  meet,  that  can't  be  helped — you  will 
have  done  vour  best  for  me  then.    Wire  what  is 


THE  WORLDLINGS  269 

the  best  time  for  me  to  come;  wire  as  soon  as 
you  get  this.    I  am  sure  I  can  depend  on  you." 

She  became  aware  that  she  was  feeling  very 
faint,  and  she  ordered  some  supper  and  a  bottle 
of  champagne.  Her  courage  flowed  back  to  her 
while  she  supped;  she  was  proud  of  having  sub- 
jugated her  temper  to  diplomacy;  and  though  she 
had  small  expectation  of  the  telegram  that  she 
had  affected  to  ask  for  so  confidently,  she  did 
not  doubt  that  Maurice  would  be  announced  at 
an  early  hour.  Now  that  the  note  had  gone,  she 
regretted  not  having  told  him  that  she  should 
read  silence  as  consent  and  call  about  four  o'clock 
if  he  didn't  telegraph.  However,  she  had  prob- 
ably said  enough  to  bring  him! 

Her  brain  buzzed  in  rehearsing  her  appeal,  and 
she  did  not  sleep  till  half  the  night  had  worn 
away.  When  she  rose,  she  was  far  more  tired 
than  when  she  had  gone  to  bed,  and  she  perceived 
with  consternation  that  the  cogency  born  of  cham- 
pagne had  faded  from  her;  the  forcible  phrases 
that  had  kept  her  awake  and  promised  victory, 
no  longer  presented  themselves.  After  all,  when 
he  did  come,  what  was  she  going  to  say?  She 
felt  too  spiritless  to  withstand  anybody,  and  was 
cowed  by  the  consciousness  of  her  own  lassitude. 

She  took  no  more  of  her  breakfast  than  the 
tea;  but  when  she  had  dressed,  she  stimulated 


270  THE  WORLDLINGS 

her  mind  a  little  by  a  strong  brandy-and-soda. 
About  eleven  o'eloek,  when  she  began  to  expect 
him,  she  thought  that  she  might  at  least  be  fluent; 
and  by  midday  she  was  again  eager. 

As  the  hours  passed  and  neither  a  visitor  nor 
a  message  arrived,  her  impatience  glowed  at 
white  heat.  She  tried  to  lunch,  but  it  was  as 
much  as  she  could  do  to  swallow  some  biscuits 
with  a  second  brandy-and-soda.  Her  uneasiness 
developed  into  a  fury  of  indignation,  and  she 
told  herself  that  never  had  a  woman  been  so 
abominably  treated  before.  Now  she  had  no  fear 
of  being  feeble  if  he  came;  perhaps  it  was  just 
as  well  that  he  was  late — the  callousness  had 
served  to  rouse  her!  She  reflected  that  she  ought 
always  to  have  been  the  mistress  of  the  situation, 
instead  of  a  pensioner  on  his  good-will.  Other 
women,  with  not  half  such  a  hold  over  men,  did 
as  they  pleased  with  them.  It  was  monstrous. 
She  ought  to  dominate,  and  she  was  a  cipher.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  must  be  overlooking  the 
lever — that,  in  relegating  her  to  a  position  so 
subordinate,  he  must  have  traded  on  her  stupidity 
from  the  first.    This  idea  incensed  her  doubly. 

Maurice  had  not  received  her  note  until  lunch- 
eon-time, for  she  had  sent  it  downstairs  after  the 
night  collection  was  made,  and  it  had  been  de- 
livered at  an  hour  when  he  was  out.    If  she  had 


THE  WORLDLINGS  271 

known  the  fact,  her  anxiety  would  have  been 
lessened. 

It  appeared  to  him  that  the  best  course  was  to 
telegraph  that  he  would  be  with  her  in  the  even- 
ing, but  he  was  not  immediately  free  to  send  the 
message.  Helen  had  heard  that  her  mother  was 
indisposed,  and  she  spoke  of  going  to  Oaken- 
hurst  unless  a  telegram  relieved  her  misgivings 
during  the  afternoon.  It  was  three  o'clock  be- 
fore he  was  able  to  communicate  with  Rosa;  he 
went  to  the  office  in  Exhibition  Road.  In 
Prince's  Gate,  as  he  returned,  the  occupants  of 
a  victoria  bowed  to  him,  and  he  was  conscious  of 
starting  as  the  wheels  flashed  by;  he  wondered 
what  had  been  thought  of  his  abstraction.  He 
felt  as  dreary  as  he  had  ever  felt  amid  the  dust 
of  the  Diamond  Fields.  In  the  oppression  that 
weighed  upon  him,  the  hot  wide  street  looked 
quite  as  barren,  the  life  for  which  he  had  paid 
too  great  a  price  looked  just  as  blank.  How  lit- 
tle it  all  meant,  how  soon  one  got  used  to  every- 
thing! The  expensive  houses — he  was  master  of 
one;  the  passing  carriages — he,  too,  had  a  car- 
riage; the  young  men,  waxed  and  varnished — 
equally  expressionless,  only  their  neckties  and  the 
flowers  in  their  coats  differentiating  them — it  was 
not  long  ago  that  he  had  envied  their  credit  at 
their  tailors'! 


272  THE  WORLDLINGS 

He  had  turned  the  corner,  and  as  he  crossed 
from  the  shade  of  the  trees  to  the  pavement,  he 
saw  Rosa  on  the  steps. 

Evidently  her  inquiry  had  heen  answered.  If 
he  had  been  a  minute  later,  she  would  have  re- 
entered the  hansom.  Now  it  was  impossible  to 
avoid  her,  and  he  advanced  heavily,  wishing  that 
at  least  the  man  had  shut  the  door  before  they 
met. 

"Oh,  you  were  out!"  she  exclaimed;  "I  didn't 
suppose  it  was  true." 

He  affected  to  overlook  her  excitement,  and 
made  an  abortive  effort  towards  persuasion. 

"You're  in  a  hurry,"  he  said.  "Let's  get  in 
the  cab — we  can  talk  as  we  go  along." 

The  servant  still  waited,  an  impassive  witness, 
and,  without  replying,  Rosa  walked  past  him.  It 
was  plain  that  to  oppose  her  would  be  to  create 
a  scene  in  the  hall.  After  an  instant's  hesitation, 
Maurice  followed  and  led  the  way  to  the  smok- 
ing-room. 

"I  have  just  wired  to  you,"  he  said. 

"Really?    It  was  about  time,  I  think !" 

"I  wired  that  I'd  call  this  evening." 

"Did  you  indeed?  A  Veil,  I've  come  instead, 
you  see!  I've  come  to  hear  what  you've  got  to 
say." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Maurice;  "what's 


THE  WORLDLINGS  273 

the  matter?  I  hope  you  haven't  come  to  quarrel; 
I  answered  as  quickly  as  I  could." 

"We  won't  talk  about  your  answer,"  she  said 
— her  voice  shook,  and  she  pressed  her  hands  to- 
gether tightly — "I've  come  to  talk  about  my  visit. 
.  .  .  Understand  this :  you've  got  to  invite  me  to 
Pangbourne.  I  don't  choose  to  ask  favours  of 
you  any  more.  I  think  you  must  be  mad  to  sup- 
pose you  can  treat  me  in  the  way  you  do.  ...  I 
think  you  must  be  mad  to  suppose  you  can  have 
all  the  money,  and  all  the  say,  after  what  I've 
done.  I've  as  much  right  to  everything  as  you 
have.  .  .  .  You  put  me  off  with  a  few  hundred 
a  year,  while  you  keep  thousands;  you  tell  me 
you  can't  do  this,  and  you  can't  do  the  other. 
Remember  who  you  are!  .  .  .  You've  got  to  in- 
vite me  to  Pangbourne.  I've  borne  just  as  much 
as  I  mean  to  bear.  Whether  you  like  it,  or 
whether  you  don't  like  it,  you've  got  to  do  it! 
You'd  better  learn  the  sort  of  woman  you're  deal- 
ing with — vou've  snapped  your  fingers  at  me  too 
long." 

Maurice  took  a  turn  about  the  room  before  he 
spoke.  When  he  faced  her  his  tone  was  studi- 
ously quiet : 

"You're  talking  very  wildly,"  he  said. 

"I'm  saying  what  I  mean." 

"Yes;  please  let  me  go  on.     You're  talking 


274.  THE  WORLDLINGS 

very  wildly,  and  there's  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
it.  I  can't  do  impossibilities,  even  to  avoid  a 
quarrel  with  you ;  it  isn't  in  my  power  to  ask  you 
to  Pangbourne.  I  quite  sympathise  with  your 
disappointment;  I'll  do  the  little  I  can  do  to  con- 
sole you.  But  I  can't  give  you  half  my  income 
now  I'm  married,  and  I  can't  give  you  the  invi- 
tation." 

"Will  you  introduce  me  to  your  wife  and  let 
me  have  a  chance  with  her?" 

"No,"  said  Maurice;  "I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't 
do  that  either." 

"All!"  she  cried,  "and  why  not?  Why  not,  if 
you  sympathise,  as  you  say?  Oh,  you  must  take 
me  for  a  fool  to  tell  me  such  lies!" 

"Mrs.  Fleming,"  he  said,  "you  make  me  give 
you  an  answer  that  goes  very  much  against  the 
grain.  I'm  a  thief,  but  ...  I  have  my  conven- 
tions, like  other  husbands.  As  a  woman  of  the 
world  you  should  know  that  I  can't  introduce  you 
to  my  wife." 

She  lowered  at  him  dully,  failing  at  first  to 
grasp  the  sense  of  his  reply.  Then  it  dawned 
upon  her  that  he  meant  she  was  unfit  to  associate 
with  the  woman  who  had  frustrated  all  her  plans. 
She  opened  her  mouth  to  curse  him,  but  she 
could  only  pant. 

"I  do  sympathise  with  you,"  he  continued  hast- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  275 

ily.  "If  I  could  give  you  the  six  thousand  a  year 
out  of  my  own  pocket,  I  would!  I'll  think  what 
I  can  do;  you  must  understand,  without  my  tell- 
ing you,  that  once  or  twice  even  the  share  you 
have  has  been  difficult  to  manage.  If  I  could 
explain  where  it  went,  it  wouldn't  matter.  .  .  . 
I  must  think!  Perhaps  I  can  raise  money,  since 
you  aren't  satisfied." 

She  made  no  response.  She  was  realising  what 
his  marriage  had  cost  her  from  first  to  last. 

"Come,  don't  let  us  part  bad  friends,"  he  said. 
"As  you're  here,  you  may  as  well  take  your 
cheque  now,  instead  of  next  week.  And  we've 
been  very  quiet :  I  can  even  draw  it  for  five  hun- 
dred if  you  like." 

He  wrote  it,  eager  to  be  rid  of  her,  but  when 
he  rose  and  held  it  out,  she  did  not  move. 

"Come,"  he  repeated,  putting  it  down,  "don't 
let  us  part  bad  friends!" 

She  began  to  revile  him  then — slowly,  articu- 
lating by  an  effort;  and  he  interrupted  her  only 
once,  when  she  mentioned  his  wife.  Some  sec- 
onds passed  while  he  listened  to  her. 

When  she  ceased,  he  spoke  again;  he  was  by 
this  time  almost  as  white  as  she : 

"It  can  do  no  good  to  prolong  our  interview," 
he  said.  "It  is  quite  true  that  I  have  broken  my 
word  to  you ;  and  circumstances  must  always  pre- 


276  THE  WORLDLINGS 

vent  my  keeping  it.  To  tell  me  that  I  had  no 
right  to  marry  is  only  to  say  something  that  I'm 
conscious  of  in  every  minute  of  my  life,  hut  no- 
body  has  done  you  any  wrong  except  myself." 
He  stood  waiting  for  her  to  go. 

Helen  came  into  the  room,  with  her  mother's 
telegram  in  her  hand. 

"Philip,"  she  said,  "I  thought  you'd  like  to 
know  my  mother  wires  that " 

"I'll  come  to  you!"  he  exclaiming,  starting  for- 
ward. 

She  had  paused  at  the  sight  of  the  woman. 
Instinct  had  named  the  woman,  and  his  words 
confirmed  her  instinct.  Her  heart  seemed  to  jerk 
to  her  throat,  and  her  knees  tremhled.  She 
turned  to  the  door;  but  Rosa  was  reckless. 

"Lady  Helen,"  she  said,  urgently,  "I'm  glad 
to  meet  you!  I'm  sure  Sir  Adolphus  has  talked 
of  'Mrs.*Fleming'?" 

For  a  moment  Helen  wavered,  questioning 
still.  Maurice  committed  the  first  of  two  mis- 
takes; he  picked  up  the  cheque — and  she  saw  it. 
The  room  lurched;  she  knew  an  agony  of  fear 
that  she  was  going  to  betray  her  agitation;  but 
her  pride  rose  supreme.  Her  indifferent  gaze 
met  the  other's — and  ignored  her.  It  was  the 
only  sign  that  she  made  of  having  heard. 

The  blood  surged  to  Rosa's  head;   she  was 


THE  WORLDLINGS  277 

filled  by  an  ungovernable  impulse  to  defy  them 
both. 

"Your  husband,"  she  added,  insolently,  "has 
just  invited  me  to  stay  with  you  at  Pangbourne; 
I've  told  him  that  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  go." 

Maurice's  second  error  was  delay.  He  had  to 
cope  with  a  woman  who  had  lost  her  senses,  and 
there  was  an  instant  in  which  he  stood  irresolute, 
daunted  by  the  thought  of  what  he  might  pro- 
voke.   His  hesitancy  was  fatal. 

Helen  spoke  now,  not  to  Rosa,  but  to  him ;  her 
intonation  was  perfectly  level,  perfectly  distinct. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "that  I  must  decline 
to  receive  Mrs.  Fleming — either  at  Pangbourne 
or  here.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  make  her 
understand  that  my  house  is  not  open  to  her." 

"There  isn't  any  question  of  your  receiving 
her,"  he  said  in  a  quick  undertone.  "I'll  come 
to  you  directly;  go  back  to  the  drawing-room 
at  once." 

But  in  Rosa  the  limits  of  endurance  could  be 
strained  no  further.  All  her  pulses  clamoured  to 
retaliate,  to  destroy;  and  nothing  else  mattered. 
Her  single  thought  was  requital,  her  sole  anxiety 
was  that  she  would  not  have  time  to  taste  the 
triumph. 

"You  'decline  to  receive'?"  she  gasped;  "your 


278  THE  WORLDLINGS 

'house  isn't  open'?  I've  as  much  right  in  the 
house  as  you  have!" 

Before  she  could  say  any  more  Maurice  sprang 
to  her;  he  clapped  his  hand  on  her  mouth. 

"Go,  go!"  he  said  to  Helen,  "I'll  explain  after- 
wards.   In  God's  name,  why  don't  you  go?" 

The  power  to  move  seemed  to  have  left  her; 
she  was  spell-bound  by  the  woman's  struggle  to 
speak.  During  the  few  horrible  seconds  in  which 
he  stood  holding  back  ruin,  Maurice  wondered 
if  he  would  have  done  better  to  seize  Helen,  in- 
stead, and  thrust  her  from  the  room. 

The  sound  stunned  him  at  last: 

"I've  as  much  right  here  as  either  of  you!  His 
name  isn't  Philip  Jardine  at  all — he's  a  damned 
impostor  I  can  send  to  gaol !" 

After  the  sound  came  silence — a  silence  more 
fearful  than  any  sound  in  life.  After  a  long 
time,  he  forced  his  eyes  to  Helen's  face.  It  was 
rigid;  it  was  like  the  face  of  a  woman  who  had 
died  of  fright.  The  silence  became  too  tense  to 
be  borne;  Rosa  herself  was  appalled  by  it;  but 
the  return  of  reason  chilled  her  veins,  and  speech 
had  frozen  in  her.  Triumph,  and  even  resent- 
ment, congealed.  She  felt  dizzy  and  afraid  as 
she  realised  what  she  had  done.  .  .  .  Still  nobody 
spoke.    No  scream,  no  outburst  of  despair,  could 


THE  WORLDLINGS  279 

have  had  the  awfulness  of  the  overpowering  si- 
lence, which  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  end. 

Presently,  watching  his  wife's  lips,  Maurice 
heard  her  whisper: 

"Tell  her  to  go." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Are  you  satisfied?"  he  said.  "You  can  do  no 
more!" 

Rosa  moved  towards  him  slowly.  She  an- 
swered nothing;  she  did  not  look  at  him  as  she 
passed.  The  thought  of  escaping  from  the  room 
filled  her  with  relief. 

He  waited  while  she  crossed  the  hall — until 
the  outer  door  was  slammed.  Then  he  turned; 
and  the  weight  of  silence  sank  upon  the  room 
again.  .  .  . 

"What  shall  I  say?" 

She  stared  before  her  speechlessly. 

"What  shall  I  say?  .  .  .  You  know  now!  I 
have  done  you  the  worst  injury  a  woman  ever 
suffered.  I've  no  defence;  but — I  loved  you,  I 
— that's  all,  I  loved  you.  ...  I  meant  to  go 
away,  never  to  tell  you.  I  shuddered  at  my 
thought  of  making  you  my  wife;  I  struggled,  I 
did,  I  did !  But — oh,  my  God,  I  loved  you !  .  .  . 
I  believed  the  disgrace  could  never  touch  you — 
only  she  knew — I  thought  you  were  safe.  .  .  . 
Helen !"    He  took  a  step  towards  her,  and  shrank 


280  THE  WORLDLINGS 

as  he  met  her  eyes.  "I  gave  her  all  I  could  to 
keep  her  quiet;  I  would  have  done  anything  but 
allow  her  to  know  you.  .  .  .  I'm  a  thief — what 
she  said  is  true;  they  might  put  me  in  the  dock; 
but  my  punishment,  my  degradation  has  come — 
to  stand  before  you  like  this." 

"A  thief,"  she  moaned,  "a  thief!" 

"I  gave  her  all  I  could,"  he  muttered.  "I 
thought  you  were  safe." 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  head,  gazing  at  him 
wildly. 

"Who  .  .  .  are  you?"  she  asked. 

"My  name  is  Maurice  Blake;  I  used  to  be  a 
gentleman." 

"I  think  I'm  going  mad,"  she  said;  "my  head 
feels — No!  don't  touch  me.  There — stay  there 
—tell  me  all." 

"I  thought  you  were  safe,"  he  repeated. 

"No — the  beginning,  all!" 

"He  died  when  I  was  with  him — the  real  man 
— we  were  very  much  alike.  That  woman  was 
his  mistress — I  persuaded  her  to  help  me.  ...  I 
was  poor;  I've  been  very  near  starvation  in  my 
life.  .  .  .  My  father  lost  a  fortune,  and  died  in 
want.  Poverty  killed  my  sister — she  was  a  lady, 
you  wouldn't  have  refused  to  know  her;  she  died 
of  cruel  work,  and  too  little  to  eat.  ...  I  said 
there  was  only  one  God :  Money !    And  the  chance 


THE  WORLDLINGS  281 

came.  There  was  no  one  to  be  displaced — I  had 
only  to  call  myself  'Jardine.'  .  .  .  Ah,  what  can 
you  know — you! — of  what  the  chance  meant  to 
a  man  like  me?  I  took  it;  and — and  I'll  be  can- 
did— I  didn't  feel  much  shame  till  I  met  you.  I 
had  never  spoken  to  such  a  woman  as  you — I 
imagined  you  when  I  was  a  beggar.  Since  you've 
been  my  wife,  conscience  has  made  my  life  a 
curse.  .  .  .  It's  too  late.  My  love  was  my  worst 
crime,  but — you  had  it  all.  I  sinned  to  you  be- 
cause I  couldn't  conquer  my  love  for  you — I've 
ruined  you  because  I  loved  you.  For  God  Al- 
mighty's sake,  don't  look  like  that — your  hor- 
ror's killing  me !" 

"  'Love'?"  she  said  hoarsely.  "Speak  of  your 
poverty,  not  your  'love' — I  know  you!  .  .  . 
You've  degraded  me  .  .  .  you've  made  me  a 
thief — you've  done  me  every  wrong  a  man  can 
do  a  woman — you  haven't  spared  me  one!  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  mother  did  well;  I  might  have  married 
my  cousin — she  gave  me  to  you  instead!" 

"Helen!"  he  cried;  "Helen,  I  loved  you!" 

"She  gave  me  to  you''  she  said  through  her 
teeth;  "to  you,  without  honesty,  without  con- 
science. .  .  .  Let  me  go!" 

"I  loved  you!"     He  had  clutched  her  dress. 

"I  hate  you;  I  hate  you!  ...  I  pray  that  I 


282  THE  WORLDLINGS 

may  never  see  you  again.  I  thank  God  my  baby 
died!" 

"Give  me  a  word!  You're  my  all!  You  make 
my  heaven  or  my  hell  by  what  you  say.  .  .  . 
Helen,  have  pity!" 

"I  have  none!"  she  said.  She  dragged  her 
skirt  from  his  hold;  and  he  stood  in  the  room 
alone. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

When  she  opened  the  door  again,  he  was  in 
the  chair  to  which  he  had  stumbled  as  she  left 
him.  He  could  not  guess  how  long  ago  that  was, 
but  he  saw  that  she  was  going  away. 

He  got  up,  and  the  sun  shone  on  their  faces 
while  he  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you  first," 
she  said,  in  a  low,  monotonous  voice.  "I'm  going 
to  Whichcote;  I  shan't  see  you  any  more." 

"No,"  he  said,  as  she  paused,  "I  understand; 
you  won't  see  me  any  more." 

"I — I've  been  thinking,  as  well  as  I  can  think 
yet.  She  said  she  could — could  punish  you.  .  .  . 
Will  she?" 

"It's  not  likely;  she'd  punish  herself  at  the 
same  time." 

"I  thought  so.  .  .  .  But  she  said  it?" 

"She  was  mad;  she  would  have  told  all  London 
this  afternoon.  She  must  be  sorry  enough  by 
now." 

"If  she  did — I  mean  if  it  were  known — what 
could  they  do  to  you?" 

283 


284  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"Do  to  me?"  he  said,  dully.  "It's  penal  servi- 
tude, I  suppose." 

She  shivered  and  shut  her  eyes. 

"Who?"  she  said,  "who  would  it  be?" 

"'Who'?" 

"Who  would  have  to  do  it — your  father? — I 
mean  Sir  Noelf" 

'Yes,  Sir  Noel  would  have  to  prosecute;  I 
don't  know  that  he  would!" 

"But  he  might?" 

'Yes,  he  might,  of  course;  but  I  don't  fancy 
you  need  fear  a  public  scandal.  I — I  fancy  you'll 
be  spared  that." 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "He 
has  always  been  fond  of  you,  I  can  hardly  realise 
that  he'd  treat  you  like  a  common — like " 

"Perhaps  not.  He'd  hesitate  on  your  account 
— I  might  escape  because  of  you.  .  .  .  That'd 
crown  my  career." 

"But  ...  on  the  other  hand,  he's  fond  of  you 
because  he  believes  you're  his  son,"  she  said, 
thickly.  "If  he  knew  you  were  a  stranger  who — 
if  he  knew  what  you've  done,  how  can  you  be  sure 
what  his  feelings  would  be  then?" 

"'Sure'?  I  have  scarcely  wondered  yet;  I've 
been  thinking  of  your  feelings,  not  of  his." 

"I  have  thought  all  the  time,"  she  said;  "I've 
thought  of  all  you  say:  that  you'll  persuade  that 


THE  WORLDLINGS  285 

woman  to  keep  the  secret,  and  that  you're  only 
afraid  of  me — that  your  safety  depends  on  me. 
And  I  thought  that  Sir  Noel  might  hesitate  for 
our  sake — for  my  mother's  and  mine;  I  thought 
of  that.  ...  I  thought  what  I  would  say.  But 
...  he  might  refuse!  and  then  it  would  be  too 
late.  After  I  had  told,  it  would  be  too  late!" 
The  lump  in  her  throat  was  choking  her;  she 
swallowed  convulsively.  "I  want  you  to  know 
that  I  shan't  betray  you.  You  must  do  as  you 
please.  I  shall  never  touch  another  penny  of  his 
money.  I'm  leaving  everything — every  single 
thing  that  you've  paid  for — but — but  I  won't 
run  the  risk  of  sending  you  to  prison ;  I  suppose 
I  shall  be  as  guilty  as  you — but  I  can't  run  that 
risk." 

By  the  twitching  of  his  lips  she  saw  that  he 
was  trying  to  speak.  Then  on  a  sudden  he  cov- 
ered his  eves. 

"I — I  thank  you,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper; 
"you've  always  been  the  grandest  woman  God 
ever  made.  My  sins  are  my  own — I  wouldn't 
have  your  conscience  troubled  to  save  my  neck! 
And  now  that  I've  lost  you,  what  do  I  care  for 
the  rest?  It's  you  I  want,  not  the  money.  To 
let  you  sin  for  me  ?  I'd  damn  myself  a  thousand 
times  first — I'd  have  damned  myself  a  thousand 
times  to  spare  you  what  you're  suffering.     If 


286  THE  WORLDLINGS 

you  hadn't  come  in,  I  should  have  quieted  her: 
you'd  have  been  safe.  ...  It  doesn't  matter — I 
suppose  it  was  meant  to  be — but  why  did  you 
refuse  to  speak  to  her?  You  knew  nothing,  and 
— and  it  was  that  that  did  it  all." 

"I  had  heard,"  she  answered;  "I  heard  some 
time  ago.  My  mother  will  think  that's  why  I 
have  left  you — because  of  her" 

"You  'heard  some  time  ago'?  .  .  .  When  you 
questioned  me!    You  heard  what?" 

"There's  no  need  to  deny  it;  our  life  together 
has  been  ended  anyhow.  I  mean  that  I  had  heard 
what  she  was  to  you ;  and  when  I  came  in,  there 
was  the  cheque." 

He  pieced  her  words  into  a  coherent  whole. 

"You  think  that  I've  been  false  to  you?"  he 
exclaimed.  "Good  heavens!  how  little  you  know 
yourself." 

"Do  you  tell  me  I'm  mistaken?"  she  faltered. 

"I  swear  by — by  You  that  since  I  have  known 
you — since  the  first  day  I  saw  you — there  has 
been  no  other  woman  in  the  world  to  me !  I  was 
true  to  you  when  I  thought  you  would  never 
belong  to  me.  And  she — she  was  never  anything! 
I  have  never  thought  of  her  in  such  a  way.  The 
cheque?  The  cheque  was  her  share;  there  have 
been  many  cheques." 

"She  was  seen  in  your  rooms  ...  at  night? 


THE  WORLDLINGS  287 

That  was  before  you  married  me ;  but  once — once 
it  must  have  been  so?  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter — 
then  or  now !    I  don't  care,  it's  nothing  to  me." 

"I  know  it's  nothing  to  you,"  he  said,  "less 
now  than  ever;  and  I  know  that  I  have  been  noth- 
ing to  you;  but,  guilty  as  I  am,  I'm  innocent  of 
that.  I  can't  expect  you  to  believe  anything  I 
say — but  I'm  innocent  of  that!  She  did  come  to 
my  rooms  one  night — I  remember;  it  was  after 
I  had  left  you,  while  I  was  struggling  to  keep 
away  from  you.  Yes,  she  came  there,  and  Boul- 
ger  came  in — I  remember.  It  was  twelve,  I 
think.  There  was  no  harm.  If  I  were  dying, 
and  they  were  my  last  words:  I've  been  true  to 
you  from  the  hour  we  met!" 

His  eyes  besought  her,  and  she  bent  her  head. 
It  had  come  too  late  to  make  her  happiness,  but 
she  marvelled  that  she  could  be  so  glad ;  she  mar- 
velled that  faith  in  this  could  lighten  the  horror 
that  lay  upon  her  brain. 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said. 

"God  bless  you!  You've  shown  me  more 
mercy  than  many  a  woman  who  had  loved  me 
would  have  shown.  Don't  fear  my  shielding  my- 
self behind  your  silence — I  must  say  that  again 
and  again  in  our  good-bye.  And  your  life  shan't 
be  ruined — I'll  take  care  of  your  name.  Tell  your 


288  THE  WORLDLINGS 

mother  what  you  choose,  but  be  guided  by  her 
till  you  hear  of  me  again — it  won't  be  long." 

"I  shan't  put  you  in  danger,"  she  declared. 
"What  I  have  said,  I  mean.  You  will  confess, 
or  not!    I've  given  you  my  word." 

"I  understand." 

"I  think  that's  all.  .   .   .  I'm  going." 

"Wait,"  he  said,  "I  am  considering  you.  .  .  . 
Write  to  somebody — one  or  two  friends — that 
you're  staying  at  Whichcote  till  your  mother  is 
better.  .  .  .  Invite  some  more  people  to  go  to  us 
at  Pangbourne.    Don't  forget.    Write  at  once." 

"What's  the  use?"  she  muttered;  "we  shall 
never  be  seen  together  any  more.  'Pangbourne'? 
Even  if  you  escape  punishment,  everyone  will 
know  we  spend  our  lives  apart." 

"I  am  considering  you,"  he  repeated;  "it's  your 
name  that  I've  been  thinking  about  ever  since 
you  went  upstairs.  Do  what  I  say!  ...  It 
doesn't  seem  quite  real  to  be  speaking  to  you  for 
the  last  time — but  I  know  that  I  am.  Don't 
hate  me  more  than  you  can  help;  I'm  thankful 
that  you  believe  I've  been  true  to  you.  I  hope 
by-and-by  you'll  be  able  to  forget  something  of 
what  I've  made  you  suffer.  You're  very  young, 
and  if  the  world  doesn't  know,  it'll  be  easier  for 
you;  trust  me,  I'll  do  my  best  to  prevent  that. 
Of  course  you'll  always  remember  that  I  didn't 


THE  WORLDLINGS  289 

love  you  well  enough  to  act  fairly  to  you,  but  per- 
haps, later  on,  you'll  try  to  believe  that  I  loved 
you  with  the  greatest  love  I  was  capable  of.  .  .  . 
I  don't  want  to  cant,  or  to  be  a  coward — you'd 
better  go." 

His  teeth  were  set,  and  he  clenched  his  hands 
that  he  mightn't  lift  them  to  her. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  brokenly. 

"Good-bye,  Helen,"  he  said. 

She  went  out. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Rosa  had  tumbled  on  the  couch;  her  eyes 
were  dilated,  her  hands  impotent  and  wet.  The 
explosion  no  longer  reverberated,  but  she  lay 
crushed  in  the  ruin.  Earlier,  the  reaction  had 
held  the  relief  of  hysterical  tears,  but  now  the 
vehemence  of  despair,  like  the  fury  of  resent- 
ment, had  passed.  She  never  moved;  her  stare 
never  wavered;  she  lay  where  she  had  fallen, 
thinking. 

What  would  happen?  She  had  wrecked  her 
world.  That  she  had  shattered  the  world  of 
others  neither  troubled  nor  consoled  her.  She 
was  faint  with  horror.  Everything  was  over; 
this  morning  all  her  future  had  been  safeguarded 
— this  afternoon  she  was  a  beggar.  For  an  in- 
stant she  questioned  whether  Maurice  mightn't 
approach  her,  whether  his  wife  mightn't  lend  her- 
self to  the  fraud,  in  order  to  retain  her  position; 
but  the  hope  sank  as  it  came.  It  was  too  wild; 
a  woman  like  that  did  not  do  such  things!  No, 
she  repeated  it:  everything  was  over,  her  future 
was  a  blank ;  a  few  pounds,  a  few  diamonds,  these 
were  all  that  remained. 

290 


THE  WORLDLINGS  291 

Would  she  be  prosecuted  ?  Only  when  this  fear 
recurred  to  her,  a  shiver  mounted  from  her  vitals 
and  twitched  her  mouth.  She  had  sought  to  ex- 
tirpate the  dread  by  the  reminder  that  she  was 
safe  unless  Sir  Noel  proceeded  against  Maurice 
— that  to  imprison  him  would  cover  his  wife,  and 
his  wife's  family,  with  disgrace — that  they  would 
do  their  utmost  to  avert  it;  but  now  misgiving 
mastered  her  again.  Supposing  that,  in  their 
wrath,  they  wished  to  see  him  punished,  or  sup- 
posing that  their  efforts  failed?  The  Baronet 
was  harsh,  vindictive — she  had  learnt  his  charac- 
ter from  his  son,  long  before  Blake  professed  to 
read  it — perhaps  he  would  be  obdurate !  Then  a 
new  terror  sprang  into  being;  she  remembered 
the  term  "compounding  a  felony" ;  it  flashed  upon 
her  that  condonation  itself  might  be  punishable 
— he  might  be  forced  to  prosecute? 

Beyond  the  flaring  phrase  the  law  was  dark 
to  her;  she  knew  nothing  of  its  subtilisation ;  she 
was  as  ignorant  of  the  name  of  her  offence  as  of 
the  penalty  annexed  to  it.  She  heard  herself  sen- 
tenced, like  Maurice,  to  penal  servitude. 

Fright  leapt  to  her  throat;  she  turned  dizzy 
and  sick.  Suddenly  the  thought  of  escape  en- 
tered her  bruised  brain.  Why  should  she  wait? 
Even  if  she  cowered  before  a  scarecrow,  why 
should  she  wait?    She  had  nothing  to  gain  by  it; 


292  THE  WORLDLINGS 

it  would  be  to  incur  a  risk  for  nothing.  Her  in- 
come, her  hope  of  marriage,  had  melted  into  black 
air;  suicide  that  she  was,  she  had  not  even  seized 
the  last  cheque  obtainable!  Why  should  she  wait; 
for  what?  .  .  .  She  would  go  abroad  at  once — 
she  would  go  back  to  America!  Yes,  she  would 
leave  here  early  in  the  morning;  she  must  pawn 

her  jewels.    In  the  States Well,  she  wouldn't 

starve ! 

She  must  determine  her  movements — she 
mustn't  delay.  How  difficult  it  was!  Her  mind 
swirled  and  her  memory  had  gone;  she  had  to 
struggle  to  recall  familiar  facts.  She  tried  to 
repress  her  agitation,  to  look  straight  ahead,  but 
her  tortuous  thoughts  tricked  her  a  dozen  times; 
a  dozen  times  reflection  forsook  her  utterly,  and 
she  succumbed  to  helplessness.  .  .  . 

She  would  move  early  in  the  morning  to  some 
little  hotel  in  a  different  quarter — the  most  un- 
likely quarter — Bermondsey,  Bow.  Were  there 
hotels  in  Bermondsey,  or  Bow?  Islington!  she 
would  move  to  an  hotel  in  Islington.  .  .  .  "She 
must  discharge  Emilie  first;  if  she  left  her  here 
and  pretended  to  be  coming  back,  it  might  prove 
a  blunder.  It  would  be  safer  to  pay  the  wages 
that  she  couldn't  afford  and  get  rid  of  her.  What 
would  she  be  able  to  raise  on  the  jewellery?  She 
couldn't  add  the  prices;  and  no  doubt  she  had 


THE  WORLDLINGS  293 

been  cheated.  She  might  get  a  hundred;  per- 
haps a  hundred  and  fifty.  She  mustn't  drive  di- 
rect to  the  hotel — she  might  be  traced  by  means 
of  the  cabman.  No,  she  would  drive  to  Charing 
Cross,  and  leave  her  luggage  in  the  cloak-room 
while  she  booked  her  passage.  She  would  book 
it  in  an  assumed  name.  Then  she  would  have 
her  trunks  put  on  another  cab,  and  hide  until 
the  day  the  boat  sailed.  ...  If  they  meant  to 
arrest  her,  they  might  have  the  ports  watched? 
.  .  .  Well,  she  would  go  from  Liverpool,  and 
she'd  write  to  Blake  that  she  was  returning  to  the 
Cape — they  could  watch  the  wrong  port!  .  .  . 

Perhaps  a  note  to  him  wouldn't  be  opened?  A 
telegram  was  more  likely  to  attract  attention. 
.  .  .  But  she  couldn't  be  confidential  enough  in 
a  telegram ;  if  she  didn't  appear  confidential  and 
contrite,  they  might  suspect  that  the  motive  of 
the  message  was  to  throw  them  off  the  scent. 
.  .  .  She  would  write  a  note  marked  "Private"! 
If  they  wanted  her,  they'd  be  certain  to  open 
that.  She  would  say — what  should  she  say?  It 
must  sound  very  natural — it  must  sound  impul- 
sive.    Two  or  three  lines  would  be  best. 

The  clock  struck.  For  the  first  time  she  was 
aware  that  the  room  had  grown  quite  dark;  she 
was  bewildered  to  realise  how  long  ago  it  was 
that  the  idea  of  flight  presented  itself.    She  had 


294  THE  WORLDLINGS 

told  Emilie  that  she  was  not  to  be  disturbed, 
but  now  there  was  the  packing  to  be  done,  and 
the  dismissal  to  be  given.  And  she  was  weak, 
worn  out;  since  she  could  not  eat,  she  must  drink. 
She  put  her  feet  to  the  ground,  and  lifted  herself 
feebly.  Her  clothes  felt  damp,  and  she  tottered 
a  little  when  she  stood.  Then  she  steadied  her- 
self by  the  table,  and  groped,  clammy  and  nerve- 
less, towards  the  bell. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Helen  had  gone;  they  had  parted.  There 
were  moments  when  Maurice  repeated  it,  because 
it  seemed  unreal  once  more,  too  swift  and  too 
strange  for  actuality ;  moments  when  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  disjunction  scattered  his  thoughts  and 
pain  was  deadened  by  stupor.  They  had  parted. 
It  sounded  impossible;  and  yet  nothing  in  life 
could  have  been  more  natural — nothing  more  un- 
natural than  that  they  should  have  remained  to- 
gether. 

He  had  dined,  or  made  a  semblance  of  dining : 
the  servants  must  have  no  grounds  for  comment'. 
The  fact  of  their  existence  recurred  to  him  more 
pressingly  than  it  would  have  done  to  a  man  in- 
durated to  the  espionage  of  the  least  grateful 
class.  He  had  sat  through  dinner  and  swallowed 
tasteless  food,  and  drunk  a  couple  of  glasses  of 
claret ;  and  now  he  returned  to  the  smoking-room 
and  pondered  again. 

Helen  had  left  him;  she  was  never  coming 
back.  Nor  could  he  ever  implore  her  to  come 
back;  he  could  not  have  implored  her  to  come 
back  even  had  she  loved  him,  for  after  he  con- 

295 


296  THE  WORLDLINGS 

fessed,  he  would  have  nothing  to  offer  her;  he 
would  not  have  a  home.  That  would  he  the  end, 
when  he  confessed — he  could  walk  into  the  streets 
without  a  prospect.  He  was  thankful  that  he 
was  nothing  to  her — if  she  had  loved  him,  the 
blow  would  have  been  heavier  to  her  still. 

He  could  walk  out  of  the  house  without  a 
prospect — if  he  took  no  more  than  he  owned, 
without  a  shilling;  but  possibly  they  would  de- 
sire him  to  go  abroad?  It  might  be  understood 
that  he  had  gone  to  one  of  those  places  where 
men  sometimes  disapj^eared  in  quest  of  big  game; 
they  might  hush  the  shame  up?  It  could  not  be 
hushed  up  for  ever,  though.  How  could  they 
account  for  his  not  succeeding  to  the  property? 
They  would  have  to  say  that  he  had  died.  It 
would  be  very  risky;  he  couldn't  make  a  living 
in  a  desert — he  might  be  recognised  one  day. 

And  even  if  her  world  imagined  him  dead,  he 
would  be  her  husband  still.  In  every  hour  she 
would  remember.  Time  promised  nothing  in  a 
case  like  this.  Time  could  bring  neither  forgive- 
ness for  such  an  injury  nor  the  right  to  beseech 
it.  No  matter  how  hard  he  worked,  he  could  not 
work  a  miracle;  work  as  he  might,  his  poverty 
and  his  sin  would  divide  them! 

She  had  never  cared  for  him.  She  had  accepted 
him  for  his  position — and  the  position  was  lost. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  297 

She  might  have  married  her  cousin,  she  had  said. 
If  her  one  false  step  could  be  retracted,  she  might 
wish  to  marry  him  yet.  As  it  was,  she  could 
marry  no  one;  she  would  always  be  the  wife  of 
a  scoundrel  who  had  blasted  her  life.  She  had 
trusted  him,  and  as  long  as  he  lived  the  mistake 
would  be  irreparable.  She  was  barely  twenty- 
seven;  as  long  as  he  lived,  forgetfulness  would 
be  denied  to  her.  Whether  the  disgrace  of  his 
imprisonment  fell  upon  her,  or  not,  whether 
strangers  believed  her  free,  or  not,  he  would  be 
standing  between  her  and  the  chance  of  happiness 
as  long  as  he  lived ! 

It  all  pointed  to  one  course,  he  had  seen  it 
before  she  said  good-bye  to  him;  the  only  thing 
he  could  do  for  her  was  to  kill  himself.  As  soon 
as  he  was  dead  her  anguish  would  be  over.  No- 
body could  ever  know  anything  then.  Her  name 
would  have  been  saved,  and  she  would  again 
have  a  future.  She  would  be  in  the  same  position 
as  if  he  had  been  the  real  man. 

But  there  must  be  no  suspicion  of  suicide,  it 
must  look  like  a  mishap.  If  he  shot  himself,  he 
would  spare  her  much,  but  not  all.  In  every 
West  End  club  and  drawing-room  his  act  would 
be  a  nine  days'  wonder;  in  default  of  an  ex- 
planation, several  would  be  invented.  Ultimate- 
ly the  situation  would  not  lack  a  beast  to  slander 


298  THE  WORLDLINGS 

her,  to  raise  his  eyebrows  and  say,  "My  dear  fel- 
low, don't  you  know?"  The  calumny  would  be 
credited  only  by  those  who  were  avid  to  impute 
dishonour  to  any  woman,  but  they  were  numer- 
ous enough.  At  the  thought  of  such  a  whisper, 
the  man's  biceps  tightened.  No,  he  had  to  do  it 
so  that  his-  death  wore  the  air  of  an  accident! 
But  how?  He  put  out  his  hand  for  his  pipe,  and 
filled  it  meditatively.     How? 

He  must  decide  at  once — in  the  meanwhile  she 
was  suffering.  Could  he  drown  himself?  If 
they  had  been  at  Pangbourne,  that  might  have 

been  the  best  way;  here,  however The  pistol 

came  to  his  mind  continually ;  he  could  think  of 
little  else.  .  .  .  Presently  he  recollected  that, 
where  he  had  staved  in  New  York,  a  man  had 
nearly  lost  his  life  through  an  escape  of  gas  dur- 
ing the  night.  Was  that  plan  feasible?  To  make 
sure,  he  would  have  to  fasten  the  window,  and 
close  the  register,  and  in  the  morning  the  house- 
maid would Even    then    there    might    be 

enough  ventilation  to  frustrate  him!  .  .  . 

Abruptly  his 'thoughts  took  another  turn. 
Since  he  was  going  to  die,  what  necessity  was 
there  to  confess?  It  demanded  no  courage — it 
could  not  harm  him  in  the  smallest  degree — but 
it  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  rather  cruel. 
It  would  be  to  give  an  old  man  who  was  fond  of 


THE  WORLDLINGS  299 

him  a  great  grief  for  nothing.  In  the  circum- 
stances it  would  be  needlessly  brutal,  he  consid- 
ered, rather  cheap.  .   .   . 

But  again,  how?     Men  had  taken  poison  by 

mistake.    Could  he  arrange  matters  so  that 

But  everybody  knew  the  danger  of  an  overdose 
of  that !  and  no  medicine  that  he  could  recall  was 
sold  in  such  small  phials — it  would  be  evident 
that  he  had  drunk  the  bottleful  by  design.  .  .  . 
Dr.  Sanders  had  once  said  that  suicide  by  hypo- 
dermic injection  might  defy  discovery;  they  had 
been  talking  of  a  fraud  on  an  assurance  com- 
pany ;  he  had  said  that  even  the  cleverest  medical 
man  might  be  deceived.  What  did  one  have  to 
ask  for?  the  details  were  forgotten.    Besides,  the 

things  would  be  found  afterwards  and How 

had  Dr.  Sanders  explained  away  the  things?  .  .  . 
It  was  a  pity  that  the  crash  hadn't  come  at  Pang- 
bourne — her  release  might  have  been  immediate! 

Dawn  was  breaking  when  he  put  down  the 
pipe  and  went  to  his  dressing-room.  The  thought 
of  death  engrossed  him,  and  the  consciousness  of 
her  absence  was  dormant  till  he  realise'd  that  me- 
chanically he  was  moving  on  tiptoe.  The  poig- 
nancy of  loss  leapt  in  him  afresh.  He  opened 
the  other  door;  he  looked  at  the  empty  bed  and 
saw  the  room  at  Oakenhurst.  Did  she  sleep  yet? 
He  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow  that  hers  had 


.'300  THE  WORLDLINGS 

pressed  last  night,  and  hated  himself  that  he  was 
still  alive. 

All  through  the  morrow  his  brain  sought  the 
means  to  set  her  free.  It  was  not  till  the  even- 
ing that  he  determined  what  to  do.  It  must  hap- 
pen at  Pangbourne  next  week;  the  delay  couldn't 
be  helped.  He  would  write  to  Sir  Dolly  that 
Helen  was  joining  him  there  in  a  few  days — 
that  she  and  her  mother  were  coming  together  as 
soon  as  Lady  Wrensfordsley  was  well;  he  would 
ask  him  not  to  postpone  his  visit.  Casually  he 
would  mention  that  he  was  mastering  the  man- 
agement of  an  outrigger,  or  a  Canadian  canoe, 
and  that  he  rose  at  sunrise  every  morning  to  avoid 
the  derision  of  spectators.  He  might  invite  Fred 
Boulger  too,  so  that  he  could  say  the  same  thing 
to  somebody  else.  Then  one  morning  he  would 
go  out  in  the  boat  and  come  back  again;  and  the 
next  morning  the  boat  would  be  found  over- 
turned and  he  wouldn't  come  back.  He  would 
drown,  he  swore  it.  It  would  be  a  ghastly  effort 
to  refrain  from  swimming,  he  supposed,  but  he 
could  lock  his  hands  and  remember  it  was  for 
Her. 

The  nine-o'clock  post  was  delivered.  There 
were  three  letters.  Two  of  them  were  for  Helen ; 
the  other  was  Rosa's  note  to  himself.  His  curi- 
osity to  see  what  she  could  still  find  to  say  was 


THE  WORLDLINGS  301 

of  the  slightest;  he  put  the  letters  for  Helen  in 
an  envelope,  and  directed  it  to  "Lady  Helen 
Jardine."  He  might  have  known  that  she  had 
not  written,  but  suddenly  he  had  hoped  to  hear 
from  her  as  the  man  entered  the  room;  he  won- 
dered that  he  could  have  been  so  foolish.  There 
was  only  this! 

His  impulse  was  to  destroy  it  unread,  but  he 
broke  the  seal,  and  glanced  at  the  contents  indif- 
ferently. "She  was  going  to  the  Cape  and  he 
would  not  hear  from  her  again ;  his  recriminations 
would  never  reach  her,  so  he  could  save  himself 
the  trouble  of  making  them.  It  was  no  use  to 
tell  him  that  she  was  sorry!"  The  last  was  a 
postscript. 

He  tore  the  paper  into  infinitesimal  pieces,  and 
dropped  them  in  the  basket.  No,  it  was  no  use 
at  all,  he  agreed  with  her ;  nothing  on  earth  could 
be  more  futile. 

She  was  disappearing;  she  had  fired  her  shot, 
and  was  staggered  by  the  recoil.  His  wife  would 
be  silent  in  mercy,  and  Rosa  Fleming  would  hold 
her  tongue  in  fear.  The  circumstances  were  very 
propitious.  If  he  liked,  the  position  that  he  had 
sinned  for  might  be  retained.  He  need  neither 
confess,  nor  die.  He  need  only  take  Helen  at 
her  word! 

He  smiled.    Now  that  he  knew  that  her  agony 


S02  THE  WORLDLINGS 

would  cease  in  ten  days,  half  of  his  own  had 
rolled  away.  He  revolved  his  project  patiently, 
debating  whether  it  left  any  opening  for  suspi- 
cion. He  could  see  none.  It  appeared  to  him 
perfect,  save  for  the  drawback  that  the  house 
wasn't  at  their  disposal  until  the  thirtieth  of  the 
month.  Sir  Adolphus's  presence  in  it  would  be 
no  drawback:  he,  assuredly,  would  not  get  up  at 
sunrise;  and  as  to  Boulger,  he  would  never  be 
there  at  all,  for  he  could  be  asked  to  come  a  fort- 
night hence. 

That  night  Maurice  slept  more  peaceful. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday.  In  the  after- 
noon, for  the  first  time  since  she  had  gone,  he 
wandered  from  the  drawing-room  to  the  boudoir, 
and  touched  the  trifles  that  had  belonged  to  her. 
There  was  a  book  with  a  jade  paper-knife  pro- 
truding from  it;  he  remembered  an  insignificant 
remark  that  she  had  made  when  she  looked  at  the 
title,  and  that  he  had  wratched  her  cut  the  leaves. 
There  was  her  music  on  the  piano;  her  birds  were 
singing  in  the  fernery  beyond  the  open  door. 
When  he  shut  his  eyes,  the  scent  of  the  heliotrope 
gave  her  back  to  him.  After  a  little  while  he 
heard  Plummer  usher  in  a  visitor,  and  started  as 
a  familiar  cough  told  him  who  the  visitor  was. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  disconcerted,  question- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  SOS 

ing.  Then  he  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
Sir  Noel  looked  sharply  round. 

"Oh,  you  are  at  home,"  he  said;  "the  man 
wasn't  sure!  Well,  you  see  I've  come  to  town — 
I've  come  to  hear  what  it  all  means.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  it,  eh?  The  news  has  upset  me  very 
much."  He  wiped  the  heat-drops  from  his  fore- 
head with  his  handkerchief. 

"You  should  have  sent  me  a  wire,"  said  Mau- 
rice; "if  you  wanted  me  I  could  have  gone  to 
you.  You  must  be  tired — I'll  tell  him  to  bring 
you  something." 

He  rang  the  bell  before  a  protest  could  be 
made,  but  when  the  servant  reappeared  Sir  Noel 
would  have  nothing.  His  fingers  drummed  his 
knees  impatiently  till  the  interruption  was  past; 
and  the  door  had  no  sooner  closed  than  he  broke 
out:  "Lady  Wrensfordsley  came  to  me  this 
morning;  I  could  scarcely  believe  what  I  heard  I 
She  wished  to  come  to  you,  but  Helen  had  made 
her  promise  not  to  approach  you.  It  is  a  very 
scandalous  thing,  Philip.  I  can't  make  it  out. 
I — I  am  terribly  distressed." 

"Lady  Wrensfordsley  was  laid  up,"  murmured 
Maurice,  at  a  loss  how  to  reply;  "is  she  all  right 
again  now,  then?" 

"Yes,  she  is  all  right.  Well,  well,  well,  you 
have  not  told  me  if  it  is  true!    I'm  waiting  to 


304  THE  WORLDLINGS 

hear  what  has  happened.  I  understand  that  your 
wife  has  left  you  and  that  you  offer  no  opposition 
— that  you  were  quite  willing  for  her  to  go.  It's 
extraordinary!  What  does  it  mean?  Is  it  a 
fact?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice,  "it's  a  fact.  I  couldn't 
oppose  her  going.  How  is  she — have  vou  seen 
her?" 

"I've  only  seen  Lady  Wrensfordsley — Helen 
didn't  know  that  she  was  coming  to  me.  She 
was  in  great  grief — and  there  is  no  explanation 
made;  she  is  quite  in  the  dark.  Helen  says  noth- 
ing hut  that  she  will  not  go  back  to  you.  At 
first  her  mother  hoped  it  was  only  a  quarrel,  but 
she  seems  to  think  it  is  quite  serious — that  you 
intend  it  to  be  a  separation.  You  yourself  tell 
me  so?" 

Maurice  nodded. 

"There  is,  I  suppose,  another  woman?  Al- 
ready!" 

"Did  Lady  Wrensfordsley  say  that?"  asked 
Maurice. 

"She  told  me  that  Helen  had  suspected  it  for 
some  time,  but  that  now  she  denies  it — that  she 
says  she  was  mistaken.  Her  mother  thought  that 
that  was  the  reason,  but  Helen  said  'Xo'." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Maurice.  "No,  there's  no 
other  woman,  sir.    There  never  has  been." 


THE  WORLDLINGS  305 

"Then  why  have  you  parted — what  about? 
Your  wife  has  gone,  and  you  do  nothing  to  bring 
her  back?  You — you  do  not  attempt  to  make  it 
up  with  her?"  .  .  .  He  rose  nervously  and  laid 
his  hand  on  Maurice's  arm.  "It  can't  be  that — 
that  you  have  found  out  something?" 

"Good  God!"  gasped  Maurice.  "She's  the 
noblest  woman  in  the  world." 

"Then — then — I  have  a  right  to  be  answered! 
I  have  come  to  hear  what  has  taken  place.  You 
think  so  much  of  her,  yet  you  let  her  go?  I  in- 
sist on  your  explaining  to  me.  If  it's  not  her 
fault,  it's  yours.  It  has  got  to  be  put  straight. 
I  have  promised  to  use  my  influence  with  you. 
You  must  bring  her  home — you  must  return  with 
me  to-day." 

"I  can't.  Helen  wouldn't  wish  it,  sir.  I  let 
her  go  because  it  was  impossible  to  prevent  it; 
it's  impossible  to  bring  her  back." 

"Are  you  mad?"  said  Sir  Noel  shrilly.  "Do 
you  understand  what  it  is  you  are  talking  about? 
One  would  think  you  were  a  boy !  What  do  you 
suppose  people  will  say?  I  think  she  must  be 
mad,  too!  Her  mother  is  in  despair,  I  tell  you. 
We  have  got  to  know  what  it  all  means.  If  you 
refuse  to  answer  me,  I  shall  go  to  Helen  myself. 
These  things  can't  be  allowed  to  happen." 


;30ti  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"You  mustn't  do  that,"  exclaimed  Maurice; 
"she  has  borne  all  she  can!" 

"She  has  'borne' — you  have  treated  her  badly? 
Then  it  was  not  true  what  you  said:  you  have 
been  unfaithful  to  her?" 
No. 

"No?    But "  his  voice  cracked  with  anger; 

"what  then?  What  else  can  she  have  had  to  bear 
— you  are  not  a  navvy  to  ill-use  her.  Damn  it, 
you're  exasperating  me,  Philip!  Why  do  you 
make  a  secret  of  it;  can't  you  speak?" 

"It  is  between  her  and  me,"  said  Maurice,  after 
a  pause.    "That  is  all  I  can  say." 

"All  you  can All  right!    Then  I  will  go 

to  your  wife — she  shall  say  more!  You  have 
both  of  you  a  duty  to  others — you  seem  to  forget 
that  it  also  concerns  her  mother  and  myself.  I 
shall  try  to  make  Helen  remember  it,  since  you 
don't.    It  is  disgraceful!" 

Maurice  looked  at  him  with  harassed  eyes.  *'If 
you  question  Helen,"  he  stammered,  "you  will 
torture  her — and  you  will  learn  nothing.  She'll 
never  tell  you;  but  she'll  suffer  cruelly." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Sir  Noel.  "Perhaps  you 
will  oblige  me  by  ordering  a  cab?" 

"If  I  refuse  to  answer,  it  is  simply  because  it 
would  be  a  blow  to  you;  and  it  isn't  in  the  least 
necessary  that  you  should  ever  know.' 


>> 


THE  WORLDLINGS  307 

"That  is  a  matter  for  me  to  judge.  May  I 
trouble  you  to  ring?    I  am  waiting  to  go." 

Maurice  took  a  few  slow  paces,  and  turned 
thoughtfully. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I'll  tell  you.  I  think 
you  had  better  sit  down,  sir." 

Nearly  thirty  seconds  passed  while  he  consid- 
ered how  to  say  it — how  to  avoid  stunning  him 
with  the  five  words  that  said  it  all. 

"When  your  son  wrote  to  you  from  the  Dia- 
mond Fields,"  he  began,  as  gently  as  if  he  had 
been  speaking  to  a  child,  "there  was  a  man  there 
called  Blake — Maurice  Blake.  They  were  ac- 
quaintances; they  were  both  broke.  The  other 
man  was  very  much  like  your  son.  .  .  .  After 
you  got  the  letter,  your  son  caught  camp-fever. 
Before  your  draft  was  delivered  he  had  died.  .  .  . 
Do  you  understand?" 

The  old,  bewildered  face  was  still  attentive; 
the  change  in  it  did  not  come. 

"He  had  died?"  murmured  Sir  Noel.  "No, 
no,  I  do  not  understand.  Who  had  died? — the 
other  man,  'Blake'?    What  of  it?" 

"No."  His  gaze  was  fastened  on  him.  "Think 
what  I've  said — they  were  very  much  alike.  .  .  . 
The  one  who  died  was  your  son.    I  am  Blake." 

Even  then,  only  the  sense  of  calamity  seemed 
to  have  reached  the  old  man's  brain.    The  dawn 


308  THE  WORLDLINGS 

of  comprehension  in  the  eyes  was  slow.  The 
colour  sank  slowly  from  the  wrinkled  face,  and 
left  it  grey.  lie  began  to  tremble ;  he  understood. 
Twice  his  lips  moved  and  Maurice  listened,  but 
no  sound  came. 

'You  are  'Blake,'  '  he  said  at  last,  tonelessly; 
"you  are  not  my  son."  He  said  it  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  teach  himself  a  lesson. 

"I  am  not  your  son." 

The  white  head  drooped  lower  and  lower,  and 
there  was  a  long  silence.  The  clock  had  ticked 
away  almost  a  minute  before  Sir  Noel  spoke 
again : 

"You  are  not  my  son." 

Maurice  strode  to  the  door.  "Let  me  get  you 
some  brandy!" 

"No,  no ;  I  am  all  right.  .  .  .  Come  back.  Tell 
me  everything;  I  want  to  hear.  It  is — it  seems 
■ — it's  difficult  to  realise.  Philip  is  dead — you  are 
not  Philip  at  all." 

"I  have  robbed  you." 

Sir  Noel  nodded.  "Yes.  I  was  thinking  of 
my  son — that  I  have  not  known  him.  .  .  .  Philip 
is  dead!"  Then  the  most  pathetic  thing  in  life 
happened ;  an  old  man  began  to  cry. 

But  the  man  who  was  watching  him  suffered 
no  less. 

'Tell  me  everything,"  repeated  Sir  Noel  pres- 


THE  WORLDLINGS  309 

ently.  "That  is  why  Helen  has  gone;  I  see!  Oh, 
how  dared  you  marry  her,  how  could  you  do  it? 
You  have — have — God!  .  .  .  How  did  she  dis- 
cover it?" 

"There  was  a  woman  your  son  used  to  know; 
she  came  to  England  with  me.  She  gave  me 
away  out  of  spite." 

"Your  mistress?" 

"No — his.    My  partner." 

"Who  is  she?    What  is  her  name?" 

"She  has  gone  abroad.  The  responsibility  was 
mine.    You  needn't  try  to  punish  her" 

"You  have  ruined  that  poor  girl's  future! 
Your  injury  to  me  is  bad  enough,  you  have  com- 
mitted a  fraud;  but  to  Helen!  No,  she  could 
never  live  with  you  for  a  day  again,  of  course — 
no  woman  would  go  back  to  you.  You  are  a 
scoundrel,  you  should  be  sent  to  prison!  And 
you  stand  there  like  stone;  you  say  nothing! 
Have  you  no  penitence,  no  shame?" 

Maurice  lifted  his  shoulders  wearily. 

"It'd  be  very  cheap  to  talk  of  penitence  now 
I'm  found  out,"  he  said.  "Who  do  you  think 
would  believe  me?    Would  you?" 

"But  when  you — you  took  my  boy's  place,  you 
were  in  difficulties,  eh?  You  were  poor — it  was 
a  great  temptation?  You  couldn't  do  such  a 
thing  without  a  struggle?" 


310  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"I  did  it,"  said  Maurice  for  answer. 

"You  came  to  me  without  remorse.  You  pre- 
tended to  feel  affection  for  me  while  you  stole  my 
money.  And — and  I  was  fond  of  you — I  was 
proud  of  you  at  last!" 

Maurice  turned  a  little  paler. 

"It  sounds  like  a  whine,"  he  said,  "but  you're 
wrong  in  just  one  thing.  I  did  feel  what  you 
thought  I  felt;  that  wasn't  pretence." 

Because  the  assurance  was  so  welcome,  because 
he  resented  the  weakness  that  urged  him  to  ac- 
cept it,  the  old  man  answered  more  bitterly : 

"I  care  nothing  what  you  felt!  You  have 
cheated  me  out  of  all  I  gave;  it  was  my  son  I 
loved,  not  you."  He  started  with  a  sudden 
thought.  "He  is  dead — you  are  not  deceiving 
me  still?" 

"He  is  dead — he  died  as  I  have  told  you.  He 
died  in  Lennox  Street,  Kimberley;  he  is  buried  in 
Kimberley.  You  can  have  the  name  of  the  doc- 
tor that  attended  him." 

"He — he  spoke  of  me  sometimes?"    The  voice 
was  very  wistful. 
i  es. 

"I  don't  know  anything.     Since  he  was  a  boy 

I All  that  you  told  me  when  you  arrived — 

all  that  I  believed,  that  I  was  happy  to  believe — 
that  was  Philip's  life,  or  yours?" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  311 

"The  farm  was  his;  the  rest  of  it  was  mine." 

Sir  Xoel  sighed. 

"And  his?"  he  asked.  "Should  I  have  been 
happy  to  hear  his  ?  When  we  parted  he — he  was 
not  all  that  I  had  hoped  my  boy  would  be;  you 
know  that.  It  has  been  my  greatest  joy  to  think 
that  he  had  reformed,  that  he  had  come  home  so 
different.  It  has  been  far  more  to  me  than  every- 
thing else;  and  now !  .  .  .  Tell  me:  if  he  had 

lived,  he  would  have  been  good  to  me?  he  spoke 
of  me,  you  say,  but — but  not  unkindly?  he  looked 
forward  to  our  meeting?  I  should  have  been 
proud  of  my  son,  too  ?  Give  me  the  truth,  if  you 
have  any  conscience  in  you !  Should  I  have  been 
proud  of  my  son?" 

Maurice  marvelled  that  a  further  falsehood 
could  be  so  abhorrent  to  him,  but  he  did  not  hesi- 
tate. He  met  the  pitiful  gaze  boldly  and  lied 
with  a  will. 

"He  spoke  of  you  with  affection  and  repent- 
ance always.  His  life  was  a  clean  one.  He  was 
an  honest  man,  and  a  gentleman,  and  a  fine  fel- 
low.   You  would  have  been  proud  of  your  son." 

"I  thank  God,"  said  Sir  Xoel.  He  drew  a 
deep  breath.     "I  thank  God!" 

The  silence  was  broken  by  Maurice. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  shall  see,  I — I  must  think." 


312  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"If  you  consent  to  keep  quiet  till  next  month, 
you  will  spare  her  a  great  deal.  Only  till  the 
beginning  of  the  month !" 

"I  must  think."    lie  pointed  to  the  bell. 

"Let  me  beg  you  not  to  go  yet;  you  aren't  fit 
to  travel.  Wait  till  the  morning,  sir — it's  your 
own  house.    If  you  like,  I'll  leave  you  in  it." 

"No,  no,  I  won't  stop;  I  am  better  now." 

"There  isn't  a  train  yet.  Rest  here  alone.  .  .  . 
I'll  come  back  if  you  want  me." 

He  went  downstairs  and  told  Plummer  to  take 
brandy  to  the  drawing-room.  No  message  was 
brought  to  him ;  and  an  hour  later  Sir  Noel  went 
away. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Coequal  with  her  horror,  there  was  in  Helen's 
mind  a  relief  that  amazed  her,  and  that  she 
sought  to  ignore.  It  had  surprised  her  in  the 
moment  of  its  birth;  here  at  Whichcote  the  re- 
lief, and  the  astonishment  had  increased.  She 
had  been  mistaken!  It  mattered  nothing;  she 
reflected  that  Philip — that  "Maurice!" — had  been 
false  to  her  in  a  way  that  all  the  world  would 
hold  to  be  incomparably  viler;  but  there  were 
seconds  in  which  the  thrill  of  thankfulness  resem- 
bled joy.  He  loved  her!  He  was — her  mind 
cowered  before  the  word ;  but  he  loved  her ! 

For  the  most  part  she  had  passed  the  two  days 
alone  in  the  garden.  With  the  circumstances  un- 
explained, companionship  could  not  be  assuasive 
— it  was  natural  that  her  mother's  dismay  should 
be  mixed  with  irritation — and  her  only  solace  was 
solitude.  In  the  garden  she  sat  for  hours,  gaz- 
ing blankly  across  the  tree-tops,  wondering  if  he 
would  confess.  She  did  not  repent  her  pledge  to 
him;  though  the  burden  of  reticence  was  crush- 
ing her,  the  responsibility  of  revelation  would 
have  been  heavier  still.     She  could  not  feel  that 

313 


314  THE  WORLDLINGS 

it  was  for  her  to  proclaim  the  fact  that  might 
place  him  in  the  clock.  But  it  was  for  him!  A 
thousand  times  she  asked  herself  if  he  would  do 
it.  Unlike  her  own  assurance,  his  had  been  made 
on  impulse.  Would  it  be  fulfilled?  She  tried 
to  view  the  situation  with  the  eyes  of  a  man  who 
could  act  as  this  one  had  acted;  and  the  stand- 
point terrified  her.  Why  should  he  confess?  To 
lift  a  weight  from  her  conscience — the  conscience 
of  a  woman  who  would  never  return  to  him?  To 
free  her  from  the  sin  of  secrecy,  which  he  might 
persuade  himself  was  venial,  since  she  had  no 
share  in  the  gain?  It  would  be  to  renounce  all 
for  nothing.  He  had  smothered  every  scruple  to 
win  the  position;  he  had  demonstrated  how  pre- 
cious it  was  to  him;  he  had  risked  imprisonment 
for  it:  why  shouldn't  he  keep  it  and  live  the  lie 
out  if  he  trusted  her — and  he  knew  that  he  could 
trust  her?  Dared  she  hope  that  when  he  had  de- 
liberated, he  would  see  any  need  to  ruin  himself, 
only  to  spare  her  a  pain  that  he  could  not  under- 
stand? 

She  longed  for  him  to  do  the  right  thing;  she 
longed  for  it  passionately.  While  she  relived 
the  scene  of  their  good-bye,  she  believed  that  he 
would  have  the  strength.  It  appeared  to  her 
more  and  more  improbable  that  Sir  Noel  would 
be  merciless  to  him;  and,  at  the  worst,  she  felt  it 


THE  WORLDLINGS  315 

better  that  he  should  be  sentenced  than  that  he 
should  prove  himself  callous.  She  felt  that  it 
would  be  better  for  them  both.  It  would  be 
ghastly,  unspeakable — she  would  be  the  wife  of 
a  convict;  but  she  could  think  of  him  with  pity 
then;  she  could  reflect  that  he  had  done  his  duty 
at  last,  and  of  his  own  free  will;  she  would  feel 
less  degraded  by  her  love. 

In  her  thoughts  she  had  said  it.  By  her  love! 
She  shivered ;  it  was  as  if  her  nature  and  she  had 
suddenly  parted,  as  if  she  had  been  treacherous 
to  it.  That  she  was  loved  she  had  triumphed  to 
remember,  repeating  that  it  mattered  nothing — 
she  was  a  woman.  That  she  loved  was  an  ig- 
nominv  that  she  could  not  face. 

On  her  third  evening  at  Whichcdte,  Lady 
Wrensfordsley  said  to  her:  "Helen,  I  went  to 
see  Sir  Noel  this  morning.  He  has  gone  to 
town  to  see  your  husband." 

Helen  looked  at  her  with  parted  lips.  The 
news  of  the  early  drive  had  partially  prepared 
her,  but  the  announcement  was  still  a  shock.  She 
did  not  know  whether  she  was  glad  or  sorry  that 
her  suspense  was  so  nearly  ended.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  was  only  frightened. 

"You  told  me  that  you  would  do  as  I  begged," 
she  said  slowlv;  "I  didn't  wish  Sir  Noel  to  learn 
it  from  us." 


316  THE  WORLDLINGS 

"My  dear  girl,  I  told  you  I  wouldn't  go  to 
Philip  yet,  that  was  all — I  thought  he  would  have 
been  down  before  this.  You  didn't  really  sup- 
pose that  it  could  be  allowed  to  continue?  You'll 
both  have  to  go  to  Pangbourne  directly — there's 
no  time  to  waste.  If  neither  you  nor  Philip  will 
make  a  move  in  the  matter,  somebody  else  has 
got  to  do  it;  and  the  proper  person  is  Sir  Noel." 

"He  has  gone,  you  say?"  said  Helen.  "When 
did  he  go?" 

"He  was  going  this  afternoon.  No  doubt  he 
will  come  over  to-morrow  to  luncheon — unless  he 
sleeps  at  Prince's  Gardens  to-night — and  this  ab- 
surd affair'll  be  finished.  I'm  disappointed  in 
Philip !  Whatever  he  may  have  done,  or  you  may 
have  said,  it  was  his  duty  to  follow  you  and  make 
you  go  back  again.  It  isn't  like  him  to  behave  so 
foolishly." 

Helen  put  her  arm  round  her  mother's  neck, 
and  kissed  her  without  speaking.  For  a  moment, 
as  she  thought  of  what  the  morrow  might  mean, 
her  wretchedness  was  purely  compassion.  Lady 
Wrensfordsley  patted  her  hand  cheerfully,  en- 
couraged by  the  caress.  Her  discrimination  was 
too  keen  for  her  to  feel  as  much  confidence  as 
she  had  affected;  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  she 
believed  that  her  daughter  was  eager  for  a  recon- 
ciliation after  all. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  317 

But  on  the  morrow  Sir  Noel  did  rot  come  to 
luncheon.  All  the  morning  Helen  sat  listening 
in  the  garden-chair  for  the  sound  of  wheels.  Had 
he  been  told,  or  not?  There  was  a  humming  in 
her  ears  that  made  listening  an  effort,  she  felt  a 
little  deaf.  Overnight,  fear  had  revived  and  she 
was  haunted  by  the  thought  that  he  might  have 
gone  at  once  to  his  lawyers.  Faith  in  her  power 
of  dissuasion  had  deserted  her;  it  seemed  to  her 
even  that  she  would  be  able  to  find  no  words  at 
all — that  he  would  speak  and  she  would  stand 
there  dumb,  acquiescing  lifelessly. 

During  the  afternoon  the  strain  was  greater. 
The  glare  of  the  day  subsided,  and  the  servant 
brought  out  the  tea-table.  Lady  Wrensfordsley 
remarked  that  she  supposed  Sir  Noel  had  re- 
mained in  town.  Her  voice  jarred  Helen's  every 
nerve — she  was  listening  now  with  an  intensity 
that  delayed  her  breath.  She  nodded,  and  re- 
plied in  a  low  tone. 

By  six  o'clock  her  anxiety  was  insupportable. 
The  Court  was  not  much  more  than  a  mile  away; 
she  determined  to  go  there. 

In  the  consciousness  of  approaching  certainty, 
she  found  the  exercise  a  physical  relief.  She 
wished  that  she  had  gone  earlier.  Repeatedly  she 
asked  herself  what  she  should  say  if  he  had  come 
back  unenlightened,  if  he  appealed  to  her  for  ex- 


318  THE  WORLDLINGS 

plication.  She  could  tell  him  no  more  than  she 
had  told  her  mother,  and  the  position  would  be 
hideous;  she  would  have  to  refuse  to  explain  in 
the  moment  of  learning  that  Philip — that  "Mau- 
rice"— meant  to  go  on  robbing  him!  Still,  her 
visit  would  have  only  precipitated  the  ordeal;  it 
would  be  no  less  terrible  if  it  came  the  next  day! 
Far  better  to  bear  it  now,  she  felt,  and  to  set  her 
doubts  at  rest. 

Although  it  was  in  the  highest  degree  unlikely 
that  he  would  have  started  so  late,  she  had  kept 
to  the  carriage  road,  and  she  was  not  afraid  of 
hearing  that  he  was  out  when  she  reached  the 
lodge.  Rarely  had  she  walked  the  length  of  the 
avenue,  and  now  it  seemed  to  her  more  tedious 
than  the  distance  between  the  houses.  As  she 
waited  at  the  door,  she  wondered  with  what  sen- 
sations she  would  pass  out  of  it.  When  it  was 
opened,  she  wras  informed  that  Sir  Xoel  had  re- 
turned from  town  the  previous  evening  so  fa- 
tigued that  he  was  unable  to  receive. 

She  knew  that  her  gaze  was  betraying  her,  but 
it  felt  fixed — she  couldn't  drop  it.  She  stam- 
mered an  inquiry  whether  he  was  in  his  room, 
and  heard  that  he  was  down,  but — the  iteration 
was  mechanical — "verv  fatigued,  my  lady." 

She  turned  away  dizzily.  She  never  questioned 
whether  the  excuse  might  not  be  partly  true;  she 


THE  WORLDLINGS  319 

did  not  reflect  that  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
feel  unfit  to  bear  an  immediate  interview  with 
her  mother,  and  that  her  own  visit  had  been  un- 
expected; she  saw  only  that,  after  twenty-four 
hours  of  rest,  he  had  ordered  the  servants  to  deny 
him  to  her.  He  knew !  he  knew — and  he  wouldn't 
see  her !  Panic  engulfed  her ;  her  knees  knocked 
together;  she  did  not  doubt  that  he  would  prose- 
cute after  all.  In  the  avenue  she  had  to  stop; 
on  a  sudden  the  view  had  contracted  and  the  col- 
ours paled — it  had  changed  to  a  little,  dimmish 
picture  no  bigger  than  a  window-pane.  She  had 
never  fainted  in  her  life,  but  for  once  she  feared 
that  she  was  going  to  faint. 

Then  the  thought  came  that  Maurice  had 
shown  greater  fortitude — that  she  must  be  as 
strong  as  he.  He  had  confessed!  He  had  con- 
fessed without  compulsion.  Momentarily  her 
terror  sank  and  the  knowledge  ruled  supreme. 
What  he  had  told  her  was  true — the  position  was 
worthless  to  him  now  without  her!  The  confu- 
sion passed  from  her  mind;  only  her  limbs  felt 
very  weak  as  she  went  on.  She  remembered  that 
now  she  might  break  the  news  to  her  mother ;  she 
thought  that  she  would  do  so  in  the  morning; 
her  mother  would  use  her  influence  with  Sir 
Noel !  It  recurred  to  her  abruptly  that  the  Rec- 
tor and  his  wife  had  been  invited  for  this  evening; 


320  THE  WORLDLINGS 

she  had  learned  the  fact  when  she  arrived,  and 
now  she  quailed  at  the  prospect.  Her  husband 
was  in  danger  of  penal  servitude,  but  she  mustn't 
be  late  for  dinner!  She  forced  herself  to  hurry, 
wishing  that  a  cab  would  come  in  sight.  Pres- 
ently she  realised  that  she  was  dwelling  as  much 
on  the  truth  of  his  assertion  to  her  as  on  the  idea 
of  his  imprisonment;  she  was  bewildered  to  per- 
ceive that  amid  her  gusts  of  consternation  she 
was  feeling  glad. 

She  found  Lady  Wrensfordsley's  maid  wait- 
ing for  her.  All  but  her  most  recent  dresses — 
those  that  might  be  paid  for  with  her  mother's 
money — had  been  left  behind;  beside  herself  as 
she  was,  she  reflected  that  the  one  laid  out  would 
embarrass  the  Rector's  wife;  she  told  the  girl  to 
choose  a  frock  that  was  simpler.  She  entered  the 
drawing-room  in  time;  and  she  smiled  and  mur- 
mured urbanities,  and  praised  the  new  alms- 
houses while  her  soul  was  on  the  rack.  She 
had  been  trained  to  do  these  things. 

When  she  was  alone  again,  she  pushed  up  the 
window  and  threw  herself,  dressed,  upon  the  bed. 
She  was  divided  between  terror  and  a  sensation 
that  was  indefinable.  But  the  terror  had  dimin- 
ished: she  could  not  imagine  her  mother  yielding 
to  such  disgrace;  Sir  Noel  would  succumb  to  her 
entreaties — he  must !    The  thought  of  his  sorrow 


THE  WORLDLINGS  321 

did  not  reach  her,  and  yet  she  was  a  generous 
woman.  All  her  sensibilities  were  absorbed  by 
the  man  she  loved.  It  was  typical  of  the  sexes 
that  no  sympathy  for  the  other  had  entered  her 
mood  yet  and  that  it  had  been  the  adventurer, 
not  she,  who  pitied  him. 

She  wondered  what  Maurice  was  feeling,  in 
which  room  he  was  sitting ;  mentally  she  returned 
to  the  home  that  she  had  left.  He  had  confessed; 
he  needn't  have  done  it,  and  he  had  confessed! 
Craving  to  be  proud  of  something,  she  exulted  at 
the  thought  of  that.  She  went  over  to  the  ward- 
robe and  took  out  the  envelope  he  had  directed 
to  her,  and  sat  looking  at  it.  .  .  .  Would  he  ever 
write  to  her?  .   .'   .  What  would  become  of  him? 

For  the  hundredth  time  she  reminded  herself 
that  he  had  been  tempted  by  experiences  that  she 
was  hardly  capable  of  conceiving.  She  upbraid- 
ed herself  that  she  had  made  no  allowance  for 
that  in  the  scene  of  his  abasement ;  he  was  in  tor- 
ture, and  she  had  trampled  on  him.  Oh,  she  had 
been  brutal!  how  could  she  have  spoken  so?  She 
began  to  sob — horribly — with  her  teeth  set,  and 
her  nails  pressed  into  her  palms. 

He  had  been  faithful  to  her!  She  no  longer 
turned  her  eyes  from  the  immensity  of  its  import 
to  her.  She  rejoiced — she  gloried — to  know  that 
he  had  been  faithful.     He  had  sinned,  deeply, 


322  THE  WORLDLINGS 

basely;  a  lifetime  of  privation  could  not  have  ex- 
onerated him  from  the  sin;  but — he  had  been 
faithful  to  her!  The  rest  dwindled;  he  had  held 
her,  body  and  soul;  to  the  woman  who  loved  him 
everything  was  subordinate  to  the  knowledge  that 
she  was  loved.  She  realised  it — she  knew  she 
had  been  paltering  with  the  truth  from  the  hour 
of  his  exposure.  She  understood  that  he  was 
just  as  dear  to  her. 

She  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  bed  quite  still.  She 
did  not  marvel — the  violence  of  emotion  had 
passed — she  did  not  condemn  herself,  she  was  not 
conscious  that  it  would  embitter  her  future;  for 
a  minute  she  felt  strangely  peaceful;  she  felt  hap- 
pier than  she  had  felt  for  months. 

Reason  asserted  itself  again.  She  was  scourged 
in  recognising  that  by  their  marriage  he  had  been 
guilty  twice;  like  lashes  it  fell  upon  her — "twice!"' 
"twice!"  And  then,  once  more,  her  mind  obeyed 
the  guidance  of  the  infinite  within  her,  never  sur- 
mising where  it  was  led.  She  recalled  his  face  as 
he  cried  to  her  "I  struggled!"  She  dwelt,  as  he 
had  dwelt,  defenceless,  on  his  belief  that  she  was 
safe.  Eagerness,  love,  her  womanhood  found  a 
compellatory  plea — he  had  been  enslaved  by  her! 

Her  thoughts  roved  through  their  life  together. 
"Words  that  had  conveyed  no  meaning  to  her 
when  they  were  spoken,  came  back  to  her  and 


THE  WORLDLINGS  323 

spoke  for  him  now.  Comprehension  staggered 
her;  something  of  the  weight  that  had  lain  upon 
the  man's  mind,  rolled  upon  her  own;  she  could 
not  imagine  how  he  had  supported  it.  In  the 
complexity  of  her  commiseration  she  vaguely  re- 
sented his  having  suffered  like  that  unknown  to 

A  passion  of  reproach  assailed  her  for  the  in- 
difference by  which  she  had  intensified  his  pain. 
"You're  my  all."  She  shut  her  eyes  and  heard 
him  say  it.  .  .  .  "Conscience  had  cursed  him" — 
and  she  had  denied  him  even  the  love  he  was 

rjllA 

thirsting  for!  He  had  submited  to  her  coldness* 
her  petulance,  her  egotism,  without  a  murmur; 
even  when  he  had  lost  hope  he  hadn't  wavered 
from  her:  "You're  my  all."  And  she  had  said 
she  hated  him !  she  had  been  frightened  to  believe 
— she  had  still  thought  that  woman  was  his  mis- 
tress then.  .  .  .  But  she  might  have  told  him  it 
wasn't  true  before  she  said  "good-bye"! 

To  sleep  would  have  been  impossible.  She 
moved  to  the  window  and  sat  looking  out  into  the 
darkness — her  arms  folded  on. the  sill,  her  chin 
resting  on  her  arms.  She  had  never  been  a  re- 
ligious woman ;  since  she  was  a  child  she  had  not 
uttered  a  spontaneous  prayer;  but  presently  she 
began  to  pray.^j  b[oi  ^  M  aH    j^  gid  ioa 

oi  ba.gfiss  i9T3n  bfirf  sd  bfifi  <ii  oi  batoaas  b£fi 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Sir  Noel  deeply  regretted  the  instructions 
that  he  had  given.  He  was  as  yet  too  shattered 
to  break  the  news  to  Lady  Wrensfordsley,  and, 
thinking  it  likely  she  might  call  on  him  in  her  im- 
patience, he  had  stated  with  emphasis  that  he  was 
at  home  to  no  one.  She  had  said  that  Helen 
knew  nothing  of  her  visit ;  that  Helen  might  call 
he  had  not  taken  into  account.  She  had  not  come 
to  him  when  she  discovered  the  truth,  and  he  had 
had  no  reason  to  look  for  her  on  this  especial 
day. 

It  had  already  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  at 
her  leaving  her  mother  in  ignorance,  and  now  he 
wished  testily  that  she  had  unbosomed  herself  to 
her  directly  she  arrived.  If  she  had  done  so,  he 
would  have  been  spared  the  most  distressing  fea- 
ture of  the  interview  that  he  had  to  face.  Later 
than  the  morrow  he  could  not  wait,  and  he  was  in 
no  condition  to  perform  a  vicarious  duty  without 
resenting  it. 

He  had  returned  to  the  Court  dazed.  This  was 
not  his  son!  He  had  been  told  it,  and  his  nerves 
had  assented  to  it,  and  he  had  never  ceased  to 

324 


THE  WORLDLINGS  325 

say  it  to  himself,  but  many  hours  had  passed  be- 
fore his  brain  could  absorb  the  knowledge,  before 
he  could  compass  the  sense  of  actuality.  The 
shock  was  far  greater  than  if  he  had  been  sud- 
denly despoiled  of  a  well-loved  son  by  death; 
the  mind  could  have  grasped  a  corporeal  loss.  It 
was  the  fact  that  the  man  he  had  loved  was  liv- 
ing, but  a  stranger,  that  constantly  evaded  him. 
Bereavement  broke  his  heart — and  the  man  was 
still  alive. 

Even  when  he  had  spoken  to  Maurice  of  prose- 
cuting him,  he  had  known  that  he  would  not  do 
it.  He  could  meet  him  no  more — the  man  must 
go  away  and  struggle  for  a  livelihood  again;  he 
must  make  a  written  statement  of  the  facts,  cor- 
roborated as  far  as  possible  by  documents,  and 
properly  attested ;  he  must  make  a  statutory  dec- 
laration verifying  the  statement,  so  as  to  prevent 
all  difficulties  hereafter.  He  must  go  back  to 
the  life  he  had  left ;  but  there  should  be  no  prose- 
cution !  The  idea  was  repellent,  Sir  Noel  shrank 
from  it;  at  first  he  was  not  conscious  why. 

It  was  by  very  slow  degrees  that  recognition 
came  to  him ;  it  was  very  gradually  that  he  awoke 
to  the  perception  that  his  son  had,  in  truth,  been 
nothing  to  him  but  a  painful  memory — that  the 
son  who  was  buried  less  than  three  years  since 
had  been  dead  to  him  for  more  than  twenty-five. 


326  THE  WORLDLINGS 

He  realised  confusedly  that  it  was  "Blake"  who 
had  given  him  the  joy  of  fatherhood  at  last,  that 
it  was  "Blake"  who  had  wiped  out  his  remem- 
brance of  ingratitude  and  dishonour;  he  saw  that 
he  was  mourning  the  loss  of  the  living  man  and 
not  the  dead  one. 

But  even  when  he  saw  it,  the  aversion  from 
acknowledgement  remained.  It  was  not  a  thing 
that  the  bitterness  of  injury  would  readily  ac- 
cept. He  had  heard  of  Helen's  coming  and  been 
chagrined,  and  dismissed  the  matter,  before  the 
relief  of  surrender  made  it  clear  how  wearily  his 
pride  had  been  wrestling  with  his  affection.  He 
owned  to  himself  that  to  refrain  from  prosecut- 
ing was  insufficient  to  alleviate  his  sorrow — that 
he  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  the  man's  go- 
ing from  him  in  poverty,  or  living  in  need. 

He  recalled  the  sentiments  with  which  he  had 
welcomed  his  "son's"  return,  and  knew  that  they 
were  worldly  compared  with  the  feelings  of  six 
months  later.  He  recalled  the  wretchedness  with 
which  he  had  parted  from  his  son,  and  knew  that 
to  part  from  Maurice  hurt  him  more.  The  man 
was  a  stranger — but  he  was  the  only  son  he  had 
known. 

It  was  finished!  He  would  never  clasp  his 
hand  again;  never  again  stroll  beside  him  and 
feel  so  fatuously  proud  to  be  his  father.     The 


THE  WORLDLINGS  327 

delusion  was  over;  he  had  now  no  cause  for 
gratitude  but  that  his  own  son — his  "own"  son! 
he  whose  personality  was  to-day  so  dim — had  re- 
deemed his  youth.  The  rest  had  been  a  dream. 
Only  that  was  real;  only  that  was  left  him  as  he 
woke! 

The  man  must  go;  but  there  must  be  .  .  . 
something  every  year — two  hundred,  three  hun- 
dred— to  guard  against  the  possibility  of  want. 
He  must  not  go  empty-handed;  he  must  have  a 
sum  to  begin  life  afresh  with,  to  provide  him  with 
a  chance ! 

He  went  to  his  desk,  and  wrote  a  few  difficult, 
formal  lines.  And  the  next  afternoon  his  note 
was  received. 

It  had  seemed  to  Maurice  that  remorse  could 
extend  no  further;  but,  as  he  read,  he  knew  that 
he  had  underrated  his  capacity  for  suffering.  Al- 
most he  regretted  that  he  was  called  upon  to  bear 
the  poignancy  of  forgiveness.  And  then  there 
came  a  quick  revulsion;  the  thousand  pounds,  the 
three  hundred  a  year  were  proffered  to  him — to 
him,  Maurice  Blake !  Materially  the  promise  was 
valueless,  but  morally  it  was  worth  the  fortune 
he  had  renounced.  It  was  an  expression  of  re- 
gard conceded  to  him  in  his  own  character;  it 
was  a  proof  that  he  had,  at  any  rate,  filled  the 
dead  man's  place  not  unworthily. 


328  THE  WORLDLINGS 

His  impulse  had  been  to  decline  the  offer  ii\ 
the  letter  of  repentance  that  he  had  already  writ- 
ten. But  he  would  accept  it  instead — he  need 
never  accept  the  money!  Only  a  week,  and  Hel- 
en's release  would  have  come:  why  should  he  in- 
flict pain  by  an  unnecessary  refusal?  He  would 
add  to  his  letter  an  assurance  of  his  gratitude ;  of 
his  contrition  he  could  sav  no  more. 

He  wTent  out  with  the  letter  himself.  He  had 
headed  the  postscript  "Tuesday."  Next  Satur- 
day he  would  be  at  Pangbourne;  on  the  second 
morning  after  his  arrival  he  was  going  to  drown. 
He  realised,  as  he  went  along,  that  this  was  the 
last  Tuesday  he  would  be  alive. 

When  he  returned  to  the  house,  he  heard  that 
Helen  wras  in  the  drawing-room. 

She  stood  up  as  he  reached  the  threshold,  and 
for  an  instant  they  looked  at  each  other  breath- 
lessly. 

"I've  come  back,"  she  said — "I  know!" 

"You've  come  back?" 

"I  know  that  you  have  told  him;  I  have  told 
my  mother — she'll  see  him,  she'll  do  her  utmost. 
I  came  to  tell  you  not  to  fear.  You  won't  be 
punished — I  am  sure,  I  am  sure  you  won't!  He'll 
let  you  go;  and  I'll  go  with  you." 

"You'll  go  with  me?"  He  could  only  echo 
her. 


THE  WORLDLINGS  329 

"You  have  confessed,"  she  muttered.  "Haven't 
you  confessed?  All  last  night  I  was  awake.  I 
thought  of  you — I  knew  what  you  must  feel.  I've 
come  back  to  stop  with  you." 

"Sit  down,"  he  said.  "Dearest,  you're  trembl- 
ing. Yes,  I've  confessed;  but  he  has  been  very 
generous — nothing  will  be  done." 

Her  eyes  closed,  and  he  saw  the  upheaval  of 
her  bosom  by  relief.  Wide-eyed  himself,  he 
moved  towards  her,  wondering.  Her  face  was 
hidden,  and  he  watched  the  tremor  of  her  hands. 
He  stood  by  her  diffidently,  yearning  but  afraid. 

"May  I  touch  you?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  my  own!  I  love  you,  I  love  you!"  she 
cried,  and  held  him  fast  in  her  arms. 

When  she  withdrew  her  lips,  he  remembered 
he  was  going  to  die.  He  knew  that  it  was  still 
best  for  her  that  he  should  die,  although  a  miracle 
had  happened.  But  he  could  say  nothing;  and 
it  was  she  who  spoke,  showing  him  her  soul  till 
all  was  clear  to  his  understanding,  except  how 
the  glory  of  this  woman's  love  could  have  been 
vouchsafed  to  him. 

"What  did  he  say?" 

Mechanically  he  gave  her  Sir  Noel's  note.  He 
was  aghast  in  the  knowledge  of  what  her  love 
meant,  in  realising  that  she  could  attain  happi- 
ness in  the  future  only  by  passing  through  great- 


THE  WORLDLINGS 

er  grief.  ITe  had  thought  to  give  her  peace  at 
once — and  first  he  would  intensify  her  pain! 

She  read  the  note  through  very  slowly,  twice. 
Its  formality  did  not  mislead  her;  she  recognised 
how  the  man  who  was  able  to  pardon  must  have 
suffered,  and  she  was  filled  with  pity  and  admira- 
tion for  him.  A  woman  less  great  than  she  would 
have  hroken  into  wonder  of  his  absolution  and 
troubled  the  abashment  of  the  man  who  was  ab- 

Ived.  She  did  not.  She  clasped  Maurice's 
hand,  and  their  gaze  dwelt  together;  that  was  all. 
.bM'You'll  take  it,"  she  murmured. 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  can't.  I  couldn't  do 
that  even  if  I It  would  be  impossible!" 

"You  can,"  she  said;  "he  wishes  you  to  take 
it.    He  knows  now,  and  he  offers  it  to  you.''' 

Tie  could  not  tell  her  his  intention,  and  there 
was  no  other  answer. 

"There  are  several  reasons  why  you  must  take 
it,"  she  went  on:  "because  it  is  to  you  yourself 
he  offers  it;  because  he  must  care  for  you  very 
much  to  write  so  and  your  refusal  would  deepen 
his  distress;  because  I  am  willing  to  take  it,  and 
you  will  accept  it  for  me" 

'You  don't  understand  what  you  are  saying!" 
he  exclaimed.  "I  adore  you — you  are  being  sub- 
lime— but  even  if  I  took  this  money,  what  good 
would  it  be?    Compared  with  what  you  are  used 


THE  WORLDLINGS  331 

to,  it  would  be  penury.  I  couldn't  give  you  a 
home;  I  should  have  nothing  but  the  hope  that, 
with  a  little  capital,  I  might  find  the  struggle 
easier  than  I  did.  I  should  have  to  leave  you 
anyhow — I  should  have  to  go  abroad  and  work." 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  she  said. 

She  was  pleading  to  him  for  his  life,  but  she 
did  not  guess  it.  He  kissed  her,  and  put  her  from 
him. 

"If  I  could  keep  you  for  my  wife,  knowing 
you  as  I  know  you  now,"  he  said,  "and  knowing 
that  I  did  you  no  wrong  by  it,  it  would  be  the 
highest  heaven  that  I  can  conceive.  But  I  should 
be  doing  you  a  brutal  wrong — another!  Can 
you  picture  what  it  would  mean  with  me?  It 
would  mean  that  your  mother,  and  your  friends, 
were  lost  to  you — not  for  a  few  years,  or  for 
many  years,  but  for  always ;  it  would  mean  living 
in  a  little  house,  in  a  middle-class  street,  in  a 
free-and-easy  country,  and  facing  a  hundred 
economies  that  to  you  would  be  hardships.  For 
acquaintances  you  would  have  the  neighbours — 
and  nothing  to  say  to  them.  All  day  long  while 
I  was  away,  you  would  be  alone,  remembering. 
My  ceaseless  aim  would  be  to  prove  myself 
worthy  of  his  goodness  before  he  died,  and  at  last 
the  goading  thought  would  harass  you.  The  lux- 
uries, the  pleasures,  the  refinements  that  you  have 


332  THE  WORLDLINGS 

been  brought  up  to  take  for  granted  would  be  re- 
nounced for  the  companionship  of  a  disgraced 
man.  You  aren't  much  more  than  a  girl,  and 
you'd  be  sacrificing  the  rest  of  your  life." 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  she  said. 

"Helen,"  he  cried,  "you  came  to  tell  me  that 
you'd  stay  until  the  worst  happened;  was  your 
mother  willing  that  you  should  come?" 

She  was  silent. 

"No!  And  your  duty  is  to  her,  darling,  not 
to  me.  To  me  you  have  no  duty.  She  may  live 
for  twenty,  thirty  years;  and  you  are  the  only 
child  she  has,  she's  very  fond  of  you.  Do  you 
think  it  would  be  right  to  leave  her  against  her 
will,  to  desert  her  for  a  scoundrel  you  owe  noth- 
ing to?  She'd  miss  you  very  much;  as  she  got 
older  she'd  miss  you  more.  She  has  her  amuse- 
ments now,  she  has  her  health;  by-and-by  she'll 
have  fewer  amusements,  she  won't  be  so  strong. 
She  would  be  very  lonely  without  you,  and  you'd 
know  it  every  day.  When  you  got  her  letters, 
you'd  cry — by  yourself,  so  that  you  shouldn't 
wound  me.  Oh  my  Love,  my  Love!  let  me  do 
what's  best!  Try  to  be  happy  without  me.  When 
you  grieve,  think  of  the  future  and  remind  your- 
self that  grief  can't  last — that  months  of  the 
worst  misery  are  better  for  you  than  being  al- 
ways chained  to  me!" 


THE  WORLDLINGS  333 

She  looked  up  at  him.  She  was  very  pale,  but 
her  mouth  was  firm,  and  resolve  rejoiced  in  the 
splendour  of  her  eyes. 

"I  will  go  with  you!"  she  said.  "I  do  not  asjs: 
my  'duty' — I  am  going  because  I  love  you — be- 
cause I  can't  live  without  you — because  you 
shan't  live  without  me.  There  is  no  duty  to  keep 
a  woman  from  the  husband  she  loves,  and  if  there 
were  a  thousand,  it  should  be  the  same.  Your 
hope  of  proving  yourself  grateful  will  harass  me  ? 
Me?  Your  hope'll  be  mine,  the  very  breath  of 
my  life.  The  house  will  be  very  little?  How 
little  you  must  think  my  love!  Do  you  suppose 
that  luxury  is  dearer  to  me  than  you — how  dare 
you  say  it?  I  love  my  mother,  but  I  love  you 
more;  I  may  suffer  sometimes  to  be  separated 
from  her,  but  I  should  suffer  worse  to  be  away 
from  you.  And  I  shan't  hide  my  tears  from  you, 
as  you  say — you  shall  know  every  thought  and 
impulse  that  I  have.  I  shall  give  you  all,  because 
you  must  give  all  to  me.  .  .  .  You  must  let  me 
speak — I  may  never  speak  like  it  again — it  isn't 
long  since  I  learnt  to  know  myself;  I  want  you 
to  know  me,  too.  You're  dearer  to  me  than  any- 
thing on  earth,  your  sin  has  made  no  difference  to 
my  love;  I  never  knew  I  could  love  as  you  have 
made  me.  Think  what  vou  feel  for  me,  and 
know  that  here  in  my  heart,  day  and  night,  there 


334  THE  WORLDLINGS 

is  the  same  for  you.  Take  me  with  you,  and 
we'll  be  brave  together.  Take  what  lie  offers, 
as  you  care  for  me!  I'll  love  you  as  you  hoped 
for  once,  and  more — you  shall  find  the  reality 
diviner  than  your  dream.  If  you  refuse,  you'll 
be  penniless  and  you  could  starve;  I  would  face 
anything  with  you,  but  I  know  what  would  hap- 
pen— we  should  have  to  take  money  from  my 
mother,  and  you  would  loathe  that.  His  is  of- 
fered to  you  without  thought  of  me — to  you  your- 
self, for  your  own  welfare,  because  he  is  attached 
to  vou,  because  he  wishes  vou  to  have  it.  For  mv 
sake,  if  you  love  me,  if  you  want  me,  take  it,  and 
begin  again!" 

"I  will  take  it,"  he  answered.  "God  bless  you, 
and  help  us  both!  .  .  .  Will  you  say  it — you've 
never  said  it  yet?" 

She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  whis- 
pered, knowing  what  he  meant: 

"Maurice!  Maurice!" 

"And  you  are  sure,  sure  vou  will  never  re- 
gret?" 

She  drew  him  closer  to  her  breast,  and  laughed. 


TIIE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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